


Scotchverse

by kadielkrieger



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-02
Updated: 2010-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 00:43:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kadielkrieger/pseuds/kadielkrieger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen loves scotch, but every time he drinks it things happen. Misha encourages these particular things. As he's wont to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Laphroaig

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fic:rps](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/fic:rps), [pair:jensen/misha](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/pair:jensen/misha), [spn](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/spn), [verse:scotch](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/verse:scotch)  
  
---|---  
  
_**ScotchVerse: Laphroaig**_  
**Title: Laphroaig**  
**Verse:** Scotch  
**Author:** [](http://kadiel-krieger.livejournal.com/profile)[**kadiel_krieger**](http://kadiel-krieger.livejournal.com/)  
**Pairing:** Jensen/Misha  
**Rating:** NC17  
**Disclaimer:** Real people are real. These are not.  
**Warnings:** PWP. Seriously. Just for grins.  
**AN:** Many thanks to [](http://squeemonster.livejournal.com/profile)[**squeemonster**](http://squeemonster.livejournal.com/) for minding my p's and q's on such short notice.

**Summary:** Jensen loves scotch, but every time he drinks it things happen. Misha encourages these particular things. As he's wont to do.

See the thing about scotch is, it fucks him right the hell up. Not in the way anyone might expect, but the end result...

No the end result is pretty damn far from the same. Then, Misha knows that.

So of the thousand and one different spirits on God's good and verdant Earth, naturally Misha has a tall bottle of 10-year Laphroaig at his elbow when Jensen slides in next to him.

Naturally.

Misha, of course, makes a production of pretending he's far more interested in the barkeep's tales of backpacking through the highlands than Jensen. This is, in all honesty, entirely possible. The man works in mysterious ways. It also gives Jensen a chance, albeit a small one, to order something besides scotch. He gets as far as tapping the bar before Misha pours three fingers into a rocks glass and slides it the necessary six inches - all without sparing him even a sideways glance.

It might offend Jensen if it was anyone else, but it's not and normal rules might as well fuck off to Indochina where Misha Collins is concerned. So he sips and waits. Eventually the bartender realizes that he's got half his clientele stacked three deep and grumbling, the collective passive-aggressive din verging dangerously close to riot. But when he does move away, it's with reluctance, a bevy of promises carried on that fresh dimpled face that makes Jensen want to punch someone, hard.

Misha has that effect on people.

Not the violence (and what the hell is that about), but the attraction, the nearly instantaneous, seemingly resolute thrall. Misha seduces so completely and effortlessly that sometimes Jensen thinks Loki bedded Aphrodite just to see what would happen when they foisted him on the poor, unsuspecting world. He has yet to decide whether they'd be pleased or horrified, but what-the-fuck-ever. Jensen sucks a mouthful of scotch and rolls it over his tongue, savors the smoky, slightly woody taste of it before swallowing.

Scotch may make him do things he normally wouldn't. That doesn't mean he enjoys it any less in the moment.

"So do I even need to be here?" he asks, clenching his jaw around the question because even to his own ears he sounds like a petulant teenager.

"Green really is your color," Misha answers, his tone riding that razor-edge between amusement and indulgence that annoys Jensen every single time. He's not a child. Or maybe he is. Because his first impulse is to drop a ten on the bar and get back in his car, but he's no more immune to Misha's considerable charm than Twinky the bar back. In the end, he just huffs a laugh and gulps another sweetly burning swig of scotch. They both know better than to think he's going anywhere, especially since he already seems to have found the bottom of his glass.

He never has learned the art of slow indulgence.

"Can I help it if I'm bored?"

"Whatever can we do about that?"

Misha grins wide, all bright teeth and intent, eyes slitted and hungry. Jensen hears rather than sees the clink and splash of his glass being refilled, because - damn - Misha's just too fucking pretty for anyone's good. It doesn't hurt that there's a low-level buzz already kicking in the base of his skull. It also doesn't hurt that Misha has somehow managed to insinuate a knee between his, and he can feel the warm press of it against his thigh _everywhere_. It feels pretty fucking awesome actually, so Jensen smiles back.

"Apparently we are getting me drunk on scotch."

"Glad to have you on board," Misha says and pulls a slow draught off his glass, cautious because he's the one who's responsible for getting them home in one piece. It's honestly slightly terrifying.

Jensen struggles to find that place, the one where his guilt should be, but either it's buried too deep or doesn't exist. It's not like Misha needs alcohol to lower his inhibitions - hell, he's not completely sure Misha _has_ them. Fortunately for both of them, Jensen does.

Usually, he does. He looks at the glass, then eyes Misha.

"Will you at least promise me I'll wake up inside this time?"

"Ah yes, patio furniture. All fun and games until someone loses a spleen."

It's as close to a promise as he's likely to get, because Misha sighs, his eyes focused faraway, lost in a cloud of nostalgia Jensen can't begin to access. For him the memories keep sliding in and out of frame, a brightly-colored kaleidoscope of edges smudged soft and wet. All he can remember for sure is cold wrought iron and dew, Misha's fingers carding lazily through his hair, and the hopelessly grass-stained pair of jeans that went in the trash as soon as he got home.

Well, that and the bitch of a hangover.

Jensen takes another drink anyway, mostly because he needs a night away from himself, but also because he wants to know what he missed and scotch opens doors he'd usually leave closed. Hell, when it comes right down to it, he's still kicking himself for last time. That's why he steadfastly refuses to imbibe past that six finger point of no return. Promise or no, he trusts Misha to see him through to the end of the night in one piece, if not in complete comfort.

More than he can say for most people.

Still, to have had Misha, really had him, without even the glimmer of a gleam of recollection – it fucking sucks.

So yeah, the plan is to lower the gates instead of blowing away the entire wall. The scotch-glow warming his gut seems to be spreading though, and as he tosses back the last stinging swallow, he can feel it working its wicked magic, easing the tension, sending sweet singing signals to all the right places.

It makes him edge closer and lean, dig his fingers into the swell of Misha's thigh, tongue gone swollen and slightly numb between his teeth when he asks, "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Always," Misha says, bemused, then tips forward on his stool, licks his lips and presses them to the shell of Jensen's ear, eyelashes swept once, twice, three times against Jensen's cheek. "Are you?

In the morning, Jensen will probably, no definitely, explain it away with a shrug, but for now Misha's too close and too warm and too Misha for Jensen to do much of anything but bite his lip and tangle his fingers up in the front of Misha's shirt. And he doesn't give a shit who's there, who might be watching, who might recognize them.

"I guess that depends," he says and shifts closer, both palms pressed to Misha's thighs again to keep his balance because his head's swimming and all of his blood's up and marched elsewhere. It doesn't help his focus any to have Misha so close, the scent of his sweat and aftershave a heady undercurrent to the scotch on his breath.

"On?"

"On whether you're going to let me take you home," Jensen smiles and breathes deep, drags his teeth against the soft, sweet patch of skin where neck slopes to shoulder. "Whether or not you're planning to let me fuck you."

Jensen feels Misha's hand snake around the back of his neck, fingertips and blunt nails sharp against his skin, Misha's lips and tongue and breath hot on his earlobe making his heart beat hard against his ribcage then fly up into his throat. Jesus, fuck, he wishes he could remember because...fuck. And he wants to blame the scotch, but isn't sure he can. It's just Misha, filling up his senses, turning him into little more than a muddled, aching mess of flesh and nerve endings, owning him with deceivingly delicate touches that scream, "mine, mine, mine," in Jensen's bones.

The moment stretches like salt water taffy, endlessly sticky and sweet, his jaw ratcheted shut with waiting, hoping, aching for an answer and he'll beg if he has to. Because all that's keeping him still and silent now is a single measure of restraint and a half measure of fear. Dread that maybe he overstepped his bounds. He can't fucking remember where the fences are anyway. Wouldn't care if he could, because his blood's a deafening roar in his ears, Misha's muscles twitching, straining under his hands.

The, "_Please..._" slips out before he can bite it back. Because he wants.

"Misha," he breathes, throat caught rough around the name, says it again just because it feels so goddamn good on his tongue. "Misha."

Then his tongue has better fucking things to do because Misha's lips are an urgent press against his, taking back his name and stealing breath Jensen never thought to give. It smolders slow, Misha taking his time to map the subtle peaks and valleys and Jensen catches himself moaning into it, grasping and so eager he should be embarrassed. The fingers laid against his neck grip tighter, holding him in place and Jensen wants nothing more than to oblige, to keep savoring the slick slide of Misha's tongue. It's pure possession and a complete presumption and every inch Misha.

But Jensen _needs_.

So when Misha pulls back five seconds or a lifetime later, his fingers a striped searing slide that leave shivers in their wake, Jensen feels wrung out and dumb, greedy because it's not enough. And Misha's breath still washes warm and wet against his skin - a pleasant fog that intoxicates him maybe more than the scotch. In the distance, he hears someone mutter, "Get a room," and thinks it might be the best damn idea he's ever heard.

There's a host of unreadable emotions skittering aimlessly across Misha's face, but Jensen's either too drunk or stupid to unravel them. Instead he lurches to his feet and fights to keep from falling; his limbs awkward, leaden groping things that make him feel even clumsier. Then Misha beams up at him and Jensen swears he might go blind with the glittering, open brightness of it, the spark of unguarded yearning tucked behind the blue arcing sparks under his skin until he has to grab the brass rail at the bar to keep from surging forward and just taking.

He manages to grit out, "Let's go, " but it's a close thing, his voice feels like it's sunk five leagues in his chest and Jensen thinks it may take an archeological expedition to find it once the night is over. Then he isn't thinking anything at all because Misha's kicking up off his stool, angling too close but not close enough. The ten seconds it takes him to cap the bottle of scotch and wrap his hand around the neck might be the longest Jensen's ever lived.

"If you insist," is what Misha says, like he couldn't care one way or the other, but Jensen knows better - can hear his own honed, jangling need muted but echoed. And that's just about enough bullshit for one fucking night. He turns a tight, wobbling circle on his heel and slams his way through the door and out into the night, trusting that Misha will follow.

He does, footsteps falling in time easily, but the buckled pavement mocks Jensen with jagged craggy cracks he has to take a second to maneuver around or risk falling. After he sidesteps the third one with a stumble, he hears Misha chuckle behind him. And that is _it_. Jensen's head spins when he does, his hands flying out to find Misha's shirt, drag him flush and tight. The hard planes of his chest push a rush of air from Jensen's lungs when he shoves Misha up against the wall, following after. Mortar and moss crumble under his fingertips as he hems Misha in, a long line of throat flashed white in the dull streetlight begging for bruises and Jensen – Can't. Fucking. Breathe.

"Is this what you're after?" he asks, his words little more than a rough strand of raw silk drawn taut and vibrating against the bony sweep of Misha's jaw, lips laying down meandering spit-shined whorls and loops as he mouths skin and sweat and stubble. He hums and slants his nose against Misha's cheek, eyelids sandpapered nearly shut, and he's shaking – no fucking joke – trembling leaf-like against the firm curves of Misha's body, his breath coming in stuttered gasps.

This is what Misha does to him, every time – winds him up until he feels like his head's going to explode, scotch be damned. All the scotch does is lubricate the workings, turns them from generally amused exasperation into something else.

"What makes you think I'm after anything specific?"

The words waver only slightly, because Misha's good, damn good at controlling himself. That is until he's not. Jensen's only seen it happen once, and certainly not in this context, but when Misha loses it…it's a thing of beauty.

Almost on instinct, his lips find Misha's again, and it's less a slow, simmering exploration than a wild crush and tangle, Jensen tastes blood on his tongue when he angles wrong and smiles. Misha just rolls with it just like he does everything. It's fucking frustrating, because right now Jensen needs nothing more than to know he's not the only one going slowly and quietly insane. Even lost in his fog of liquor and lust he knows the time has come for drastic measures.

So steps back and flattens a hand against Misha's chest, fingers splayed wide to keep him still. Misha tilts his head, one brow arched high, lips swollen pink and pursed in invitation, eyes hooded by shadows, calculating –trying to work out how to turn this to his advantage. Jensen watches him lick his lips and draw a breath to speak.

"Are we going to…"

Whatever the hell Misha was going to say dies with a strangled gasp when Jensen presses the heel of his free hand into Misha's groin, cups his palm against the swelling bulge, and smiles.

"Is this it, Misha?"

He fumbles the button and zipper open one-handed, fingers questing and insistent until they push past and close around the hot length of Misha's cock. Misha rewards him with a thready, guttural sound and sigh, a fevered stutter of eyelids. Then he arches into it, hips canted and lips parted, hands fluttering like birds along the wall until all ten fingers settle in a vise around Jensen's shoulders, pulling him closer.

Jensen can't, won't, doesn't want to resist, because really it would be perfectly fucking fine with him if he was buried hip deep inside Misha right now. So yeah, closer works, it just _does_. Misha's teeth find the side of his neck when he goes, the drag and graze punctuated with soft ghosting exclamations of, "Oh" and "Fuck" and "Jensen" when he changes the angle of his pull, cinches just a little tighter and twists. Has to close his eyes, grit his teeth because he feels his dick twitch at the simple sound of his name on Misha's lips.

He just _needs_.

And Misha's not saying no, so he shuffles sideways half a step, fits himself into the bend of Misha's hip and rocks. Fuck. Jensen looks even though he knows he shouldn't, knows that whatever threads of control he's managed to wind haphazardly together will snap, but he can't help himself. Just, fuck. Because Misha is gone, his head lolling loose, cheeks flushed, lower lip tugged between his teeth, perfectly debauched and unapologetic. It's too damn pretty, and they're too damn clothed for all the shit he wants to do to Misha right now, so Jensen disentangles and drags Misha in the general direction of his car.

When he stumbles again, two steps from sliding the key home, Misha doesn't laugh, just presses the long hot line of his body against Jensen's back and urges him on, nudges him forward until he's pinned. Misha's hands blur past him to settle on the roof, his lips moving slow and focused against the nape of Jensen's neck.

"If I die tonight, Jen, I promise you it won't be of anything as pedestrian as a car accident. You're in no condition to drive."

Jensen hisses then, lets his head fall forward, cheek thudding against cool misted metal, because Misha's _there_, firm and flush against his back, cock riding the crease of his ass with long, leisurely thrusts. Even through more layers of fabric than he cares to think about, Jensen can feel it tightening his throat, his chest, all his attention centered on that aching rhythm. It's too fucking much, he feels lit up like a live wire at Misha's mercy, tense and loose at the same time and all he wants to do is get somewhere he won't feel quite so exposed when he falls apart. He's near enough there now.

"Fuck. Misha…can we just…Jesus. Can we…"

"Can we what, Jensen?" Misha asks and licks a wet path behind his ear that jitters his heart into a skipping, frantic tempo. It's the quiet sound that starts an avalanche and Jensen feels something snap into place, open up and bloom through his ribs like wildfire.

"_Go_. I, I want. I want you so fucking much. Can we please go? I just…I need. I need you." Jensen babbles himself out, feels heat creep into the tips of his ears, because he's not sure what else he needs but Misha naked and all the fuck over him right the fuck now.

A blast of cool air rushes down Jensen's spine as Misha steps back and says, "Now was that so hard?" then pushes Jensen into a staggering gait around the nose of the car.

Jensen fumbles numbly at the passenger door, only able to gather enough focus to open it once the engine purrs to life. It feels like victory when he falls into a graceless slump in the seat, which strikes him as a little pathetic if he thinks about it too much. So he doesn't. It also feels surreal, because there's a sudden welling something clutching in his chest when he looks across at Misha, the wide grin spread all over his face, the riotous tousle of his hair, the completely fucking blissed out sprawl of him behind the wheel of Jensen's car. It fits. It just _does_. And he's not even in the neighborhood of a place to explore that particular jungle of crazy, so he reels himself in, clings instead to the fact that they are finally on their way to a place where he won't end up staring at himself in a tabloid some morning a week from now.

His stomach lurches when Misha steps on the gas to get them moving, and he closes his eyes to block out the lights flying at him through the windshield way too fast. The mostly gentle motion of the car starts to lull him, lets him slip into a middling state of consciousness that dulls the fine edge of need just enough for him to enjoy it a little. Because he loves this, the rush of newness and the vibrating thrum that twists him all inside out. Maybe he's just out of practice at working hard to get what he wants. But, Jesus, it's going to be fucking worth it.

When Misha's hand wraps around his thigh like iron and squeezes, Jensen's eyes snap open to a mischievous grin. Then Misha's hand isn't wrapped around his thigh anymore and he feels oddly akin to an overheated teakettle whistling, wheezing, gurgling uncontrollably because those long, elegant fingers are snaking beneath his boxers. And fuck, he knows he should be more concerned about not dying in a flaming inferno, but there's a lightly callused thumb sweeping over the head of his cock and Misha's gripping him rough but gentle and it's so fucking good that his vision starts to white out around the edges. So he just goes with it, not rushing headlong, just tending the fire. They have plenty of time for headlong and Jensen is sure as fuck not going to spill in his shorts the first time. He has other plans. But then Misha scrapes a nail along the sensitive vein on the underside of his dick and his hips jerk with a mind of their own, his hand spread wide on the back of Misha's headrest and...

"Fuck, Misha," he breathes, sinks his teeth into the fleshy part of his lower lip just to give his body something else to feel. "Unless you want to pull over right fucking now and do this in some dirty alley, I just. I wouldn't."

Misha sighs and rolls his eyes like he's just incredibly inconvenienced by the whole concept of waiting, but he also has the good grace to not remark on the choked-off whimper that rattles out of Jensen's chest when he tugs his hand free. Otherwise, he looks completely unruffled and it's screwing with Jensen's head a little considering the thrashed state of affairs behind his uneasy smile. His skin is one giant nerve ending and everything Misha does just plucks it harder and in progressively more startling ways. Jensen's about to turn and tell Misha to fuck it and pull over anyway, when Misha flashes him another one of those gut-clenching, hungry grins and says,

"We're here."

This time, Jensen finds the door handle like it was already in his hand, which it was, but whatever - small triumphs. And honestly, he doesn't remember covering the twenty feet of sidewalk and climbing the stoop, or whether he ran or skipped or turned fucking cartwheels. All he does know is that he beat Misha there by a good six feet and given the amount of scotch he's downed, it's fairly likely he just discovered the key to unlocking his secret superpower. When he catches up, Misha fishes in his pockets for his own keys, patting and humming absentmindedly until Jensen curses and takes over, fingers unfurled and groping through sticks of gum and against his cell phone and down to the tight lump of metal threaded through with a ring.

"Oh, there they are," Misha says, then starts peeling each key back, inspecting it like it's a lost fucking fragment of the Dead Sea Scrolls. And Jesus Fucking Christ on a fucking pogo-stick.

The door creaks when Jensen slams Misha against it, frame whining at the sudden weight, but he's just _done_. He rips the ring from Misha's grip and flips through the keys quickly, finding a grand total of two that could possibly be a house key. The first slides in after the third try, but the tumblers don't fall. Fuck. The second only takes a single shot and when he turns it, the door swings open behind Misha's back.

Finally.

Jensen crowds Misha across the threshold and kicks the door closed behind him. One of the pictures in the living room clatters against the wall, then falls in a shower of glass. Then the tables turn on him again, because Misha's on him in a rush, a flurry of limbs and lips and fingers grappling deftly with buttons and zippers and excavating his skin by inches.

Fuck yeah.

And when his brain finally gets with the program, he's scrabbling too, arms caught in the tangle of fabric but he doesn't care. The neurons or whatever spark slow but seem to be firing well enough that he knows to toe out of his shoes and kick them away, shrug out of the jacket and button-down dangling from his wrists. He can't help the twitch and full-body shudder when Misha's skin grazes against his, hot hands sliding over the curve of his ass pushing his boxers down into the puddle at his feet. For half a second Jensen feels ridiculous, standing buck-ass-naked on the four by four foot square of tile that passes for a foyer, but then Misha's walking - no - fucking strutting down the hall peeling layers off as he goes.

_Fuck_ yeah.

The trail ends in a shaft of yellow light, a door ajar, and Misha's skin - all of it. Every subtle sweep of muscle and tendon, that sweet spot of meat where thigh becomes ass and it's fucking gorgeous. Misha tosses a look back over his shoulder that's half coy, half fucking porn star and Jensen loses it, blacks out, that's all she wrote. When Jensen comes around he's got a warm squirming length of muscle stretched between him and the bed, Misha fucking purring and panting his name every time he licks that one certain spot.

"Fuck Misha, you're so pretty like this. Just aching for it, aren't you? You've been aching for it since you called."

Jensen flushes scarlet and reaches blindly, fingers closing around the curved length of Misha's cock, reveling in the tight arch of his back and the barely choked back groans he pulls free when he squeezes and strokes. To have someone so indomitable at your mercy, it's like the highest high in the world. It makes him brave and brazen and, fuck, needy as hell and he grabs for the lube on the nightstand like a lifeline, the only thing anchoring him to sanity, because this is so far past crazy he can't even see the border. Because he doesn't _do_ this, ever, but then he doesn't usually have Misha spread in a wanton spill against the sheets just waiting for it. So yeah, he can work with this.

"You want me to fuck you, don't you? Want me to _take_ you."

Misha makes another unintelligible noise Jensen takes for either agreement or encouragement, so he slicks his fingers in a rush and tilts forward, one arm braced beside Misha's head, sharing air in slipshod gasps, his other threaded between their bodies and searching until he finds the spot. He's gone too far to do anything but attempt gentle when he slides two fingers home stretching and searching, Misha nearly cracks their heads together when he bends and twists up from the bed, breathes his name in a drawn out whine.

"Jensen...Jen, please just..."

Frantic now, fevered and lust-blown, rolls the condom down in a practiced slide, junkie jitters dancing up his spine when he coats his cock, hooks an arm under Misha's knee and presses against that tight ring of muscle. Misha's eyes go saucer-wide for a second and Jensen breathes because he's going to fucking remember it this time. It takes every bit of his restraint not to push too hard and too quick, but he does barely. Then Misha's heel digs into his back, sharp and urgent, tugging him closer, faster, his hands clutching claws in the fine sheen of sweat that's sprung up.

Fuck yeah.

When he's seated, all the way in and it's so hot and snug, Jensen has to pause and suck a breath. So much better than he imagined, but Misha's demanding and impatient even now, curling his knees back against his chest and Jesus, Jensen's not going to last.

Then Misha breathes his name again, voice tight and tattered. "Jensen. Not going to break me. Move."

And that's all he needs, to let go. Misha meets him each time, a slick slapping cadence of sweat and skin and heat and in the end he can't control his mouth, the words that tumble over each other in a wash.

"Misha. Jesus, so fucking good. So perfect. So...fuck."

Misha looks up through his lashes, pins him down, and that's when Jensen realizes he's not the one in control of this situation, not by a long shot. Especially not when Misha turns loose one knee to take himself in hand with quick, almost violent tugs that Jensen can't help but watch. A couple dozen stripping strokes later and Misha's tripping over the edge in a clench and crush that locks down around Jensen until he can barely breathe. Sparks flying in front of his eyes on furious fucking missions, and they settle in the base of his spine sizzling out through his veins. Two more aching, teeth-grinding thrusts and he's gone, blizzard blank and sputtered out like a guttering candle.

The last coherent thought that trips through the wild electrical storm in his brain before he slumps against Misha in an unconscious sprawl is, "Scotch fucking rocks."

[Continue](http://docepax.livejournal.com/3421.html)


	2. Laphroaig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jensen's just spent the entire day rigged in a wire harness and getting thrown against a wall. Misha invites him in for a nightcap. Wackiness ensues. (Depending upon your definition of wackiness that is.)

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fic:rps](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/fic:rps), [pair:jensen/misha](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/pair:jensen/misha), [spn](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/spn), [verse:scotch](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/verse:scotch)  
  
---|---  
  
_**ScotchVerse: The Glenrothes**_  
**Title: The Glenrothes**  
**Verse:** Scotch  
**Author:** [](http://kadiel-krieger.livejournal.com/profile)[**kadiel_krieger**](http://kadiel-krieger.livejournal.com/)  
**Pairing:** Jensen/Misha  
**Rating:** NC17  
**Disclaimer:** Real people are real. These are not.  
**Warnings:** PWP, liek whoa.

**Summary:** Jensen's just spent the entire day rigged in a wire harness and getting thrown against a wall. Misha invites him in for a nightcap. Wackiness ensues. (Depending upon your definition of wackiness that is.)

** Previous Installments **

> [Laphroaig](http://docepax.livejournal.com/3185.html)

 

 

The third time Jensen finds himself at the mercy of both Misha and scotch, it's an accident. Hell, if the mere idea of putting pen to that particular mountain of paperwork didn't make him blush like a chastised Catholic schoolgirl, he might consider filing for workman's comp. Which is to say, it's entirely Kripke's fault.

No. Kripke didn't buy the bottle of Glenrothes '85 that just so happens to be collecting dust in the top of Misha's pantry. He also didn't force Misha to tilt that smile at Jensen across the wide backseat and offer a nightcap in a beguiling tone that suggests dangerous things are afoot.

Still.

Kripke or Sera and by extension the entire creative team seem to get their collective rocks off torturing Dean Winchester. What they seem to sometimes forget is that Jensen also gets tortured in the process. So he blames them and the six and a half hours he's just spent either strapped in a wire-rig or getting slammed into a wall for his momentary weakness.

It's easier to fault them than himself when he's standing on Misha's stoop watching Cliff pull away before he realizes he actually said the word "Sure," out loud.

"Fuck."

Misha manages to make a bad situation worse by slicing a grin off over the sharp slope of his shoulder and nudging the door open with an elbow. Jensen has never felt more like prey in his entire life, and if he could remember which pocket his cell was shoved in, he'd totally call Cliff and beg him to come back and get him.

He's stupid tired to the point all he wants is to fall face first on a soft surface and sleep until call on Monday. Instead he's hovering, glaring at an open door he doesn't have the energy or desire to walk through and trying to figure out whether he can hoof the three and a half miles to his place without passing out. Misha takes the decision out of his hands, leans and tugs him inside like a sack of potatoes, and Jensen just lets him do it. It's the worst kind of headspace to be occupying for any kind of encounter with Misha, not to mention one that will soon be laced with scotch.

When Misha smoothly divests him of both jacket and bag then pushes him in the general direction of the couch, Jensen has to wonder what alternate universe he's landed in, because this is _not_ the way it works with them. Like, ever. It makes him frown and study the nap of the carpet, trailing after Misha when he wanders away towards what he guesses must be the kitchen. Shit, the only normal thing about all this is when Misha grabs him by the shoulders and walks him back into the living room, shoves him down on the couch and says, "Sit. Stay," then pats his head like he's a damned German shepherd.

Jensen feels like he should argue, for the sake of his rapidly dwindling dignity if nothing else, but the couch cushions are nice and soft and he can absolutely get on fucking board with that. He even kicks his boots off, lets his head fall back against the overstuffed bolster, because if he agrees with Dean Winchester about anything it's that you got to take comfort where and when you can.

At some point, he dozes off. Or, he assumes as much, since it's the only logical conclusion to reach after you snort yourself awake. There's also the fact his throat feels like fine grit sandpaper and his lips like baked desert dunes, and he couldn't swear to it - having been unconscious and all - but he thinks maybe he was snoring. It takes a minute for reality to wind its way back into his brain, but when it does he peels one eye open cautiously.

"There you are," Misha says and smiles, and somehow the slightly patronizing lilt doesn't grate Jensen's nerves like it usually does. Maybe because his nerves are already a parmesan cheese sprinkle all over the floor of the yawning green-screen soundstage thirty five miles south. More likely it's because Misha's perched bare-chested and cross-legged on the coffee table right in front of him, swishing a swallow of scotch in a tumbler and staring. On anyone else, it'd be just the wrong side of creepy. On Misha, well - it's already been established that normal rules don't apply and Jensen's wrung out body seems to agree, flushing hot with a rush of spreading warmth that might be affection.

Because Misha Collins waits for no man. Except it seems, Jensen, when he's feeling uncharacteristically magnanimous.

"Yeah," he says, all sleep and gravel, thinking he should say something else or at least ask why he's being studied like a lab rat. Misha wouldn't give a straight answer anyway and Jensen doesn't have the brain for two-syllable words, much less verbal fisticuffs. So when Misha's smile stretches wider and he pours a liberal splash of scotch into a second glass, Jensen takes it without raising anything but a brow.

And fuck, it's good - honey and cocoa and candied oranges, a kick of cedar on the back of his tongue - all the things he loves about Christmas in a single sip. Good enough to make him moan and toss the rest back in a single stinging pull, sweet brightness unfurling in hints of toasted walnut, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Jensen sucks the dregs between his teeth, then rests the glass against his knee, closing his eyes to relish the complex mingling of flavors. Glass clinks together somewhere in the near distance, followed by another liquid gurgle, and Jensen wishes he had the inclination for no but he doesn't.

He does have it in him to say, "Misha," and breathe. That's a step in the right direction, at least, because hey - two syllables. But he can't for the life of him remember where that particular conversational thread was spinning.

Not that it matters.

Because Misha hums and sips noisily, obviously too invested in his own nearly orgasmic scotch experience to bother with words. After a long moment draws out in silence, slumber tickles the back of Jensen's neck again. The gently lulling fog only gives way when he feels the glass plucked out of his hand followed by the slippery slide of lips against his and his eyes snap open. It's a little surreal. He's usually less tired and more drunk when it happens, but in this case surreal does not equal bad. Misha's focus and attention are unparalleled among mere mortals, and to have it visited on him in this condition seems almost like a waste of talent. Then Misha's tongue snakes past his lips soaked with the fruity notes of Glenrothes and Jensen could give a shit about wasted, lets his eyelids droop, and settles in to savor. Sleep still sits, curled and waiting in the back of his mind but for now the heat of Misha crouched so close is keeping it at bay.

After a long, lazy while, Misha pulls back, teeth tugging at Jensen's lower lip as he goes. Misha's hands slide up under the tail of his T-shirt before he can assemble what's left of his scattered sense and Jensen's left in a sort of lurch. Because yeah, there's scotch and there's Misha but he's tired as hell and aching all over and the absolute last thing he should be considering is the admittedly delicious but inconceivably strenuous wrestling match that's about to ensue if Misha actually wrangles him out of his shirt.

Apparently though, his head has little, if any, say in the matter, because his arms respond on autopilot - shoulders screaming when he lifts them.

"Fuck," Jensen breathes, can't even stop the spill of it from his lips, and he must pull a face because Misha actually sounds more concerned than amused when he answers.

"Jensen?"

He grunts in response, but can't quite pry his eyes open, his lids leaden and lashes seemingly knitted together. Misha exhales against his cheek, a warm, frustrated puff of breath. Then Jensen hears an awful lot of clattering and banging that he can't be assed to care about until Misha tugs at his arm and his inner ear telegraphs to his brain that he's about to fall face-fucking-first on the floor. It makes him tense (which may be the worst idea he's had all day) and clutch at the cushions, back flattened against the couch. Misha curses, pulls harder, and Christ he's strong - stronger than the wiry twist of muscle and bone implies. It might even surprise him if it were anyone else, but Misha's singularity has been impressed upon him so often Jensen would be more shocked if something about him actually fit within the frame of any preconceived mold.

It's enough to pull a sigh from his chest and slit his eyes open again, even though that's the very last thing in the world he wants to do.

"The hell?" is what he tries to say, but it smears together in a sleepy tangle that doesn't sound like words at all. Thankfully, it seems Misha has grown adept at interpreting his inebriated speech patterns. Through the haze of exhaustion and scotch, he sees that the coffee table's been relocated and the space is now occupied by a blurry combination of a pissed-looking Misha and what might be a yoga mat - if, of course, Jensen had any clue what a fucking yoga mat looked like.

"Stop being a stubborn ass and let me fix you. You're no good to me like this."

If he had half a mind, he'd probably be offended, but right now he's about a quarter shy of that. This time when Misha yanks, Jensen's not ready. Misha puts his weight behind it and they end up on the floor in a knot of limbs and skin, chests crushed together at acute angles. Of course, Misha grins wide and writhes, pulls some kind of crazily fluid, undulating shimmy that deposits Jensen unceremoniously on the floor - half on and half off the mat. Whatever. At least he managed to fall on his back and doesn't have a broken nose to contend with in addition to the harrowing heap of other aches sending out pain signals from all kinds of previously undiscovered bodily territories.

Then he feels Misha's fingers, warm and firm, working methodically at his pants. The jangle of his buckle coming loose is cacophonous against the soundtrack of their quiet breathing. Jensen swats at Misha half-heartedly, hears him bark out a low, gritty laugh punctuated by the brisk rasp of leather on denim as Jensen's belt flies free.

"Coy doesn't become you, Jensen," Misha whispers, equal parts soft and insistent, his lips suddenly nestled into the swell of Jensen's cheek. He feels a smile break on Misha's face when his body reacts to the touch, arching into the contact even though it twangs uncomfortably everywhere else. A jaw cracking groan builds between his molars, and Jensen can't tell if it's born of pleasure or pain. Which is, _yeah_, pretty fucking confusing. Made all the more so when Misha shifts, cold metal scraped against nipple, and a noise he will never admit to making pushes its way past his lips.

"Getting there," Misha purrs, then turns back to the task at hand, knees tucked tight and sharp against Jensen's hip when he says, "Up," and tugs his jeans down over his thighs and off, socks carried along in the wake, little fluttering white flags of surrender. He kind of loses track of things after that, but he ends up on his stomach somehow with every muscle in his back spasmed tight and cramping where the harness was locked down. Then Misha knuckles into the columns of knotted meat running up either side of his spine and Jensen would swear on a stack of Bibles that he sees the face of God.

Because just like every other thing in the fucking universe, Misha's an expert at this.

His fingers find every pressure point, every snarled little cluster that needs worked, rough hands clutching and squeezing away all the tension by force. It's relaxing and oddly tender for someone whose primary purpose in life has been to drive Jensen stark raving. Okay, maybe not primary, but still. He acknowledges he's a pretty damn good lay when he wants to be, but he's never seen Misha work for anything, and wonders what on Earth might inspire him to start.

All the higher brain functions required for things like wondering snap off abruptly thirty seconds later when Misha's thumbs slide under the fabric of his boxers and dig into the sensitive skin stretched along his inner thighs, soft palms cupped against the curve of Jensen's ass - way more liberties taken than would be proper in any massage parlor that doesn't specialize in happy endings. But then, it's to be expected. Misha only observes the boundaries that suit him anyway. Which means for the most part he's a wilderness wandering kind of guy, stomping down fences with big shit-kicker boots. It's an essential element of his off-beat charisma, and if Jensen's being painfully honest with himself - it's a primary (no, _the_ primary) reason behind the attraction.

Misha is fearless and unpredictable and it's fucking intoxicating.

Case in point, all Jensen feels as Misha's fingers creep higher is the involuntary clench and drift as his legs slip farther apart - some brand spanking new set of Misha-inspired reflexes sparking to life under his ministrations. When this is over, he and his body are going to have a serious heart-to-heart, because it's so far beyond the definition of un-cool it has swung back around to cool. And Jesus, Misha takes advantage, his hands petting more than kneading now, fingers teasing ever closer to the hot, hidden places that have always defined them, but falling just short every fucking time.

Yeah. He's awake now, shuddering out of his skin a little more every second and not entirely able to catch his breath, but definitely, completely, achingly alert. It occurs to him that he's perhaps neglected to ask Misha about some pretty important things. If, for instance, he's into tantra. Because the way he's moving, like he has a spare eon or two to spend coaxing unwilling noises out of Jensen, it's maddening. And Misha is totally that guy.

The thought doesn't even have a chance to coil completely up Jensen's brainstem before Misha's on the move, and he'd thank every member of the holy host personally except that for whatever reason the motion takes Misha away and that's not better. When he wrenches his head back to look, Jensen thinks, _Yeah, okay, maybe the worry was a bit hasty._ For one, his back doesn't have anything to say about the angle of his neck. All things considered, that alone is pretty damn remarkable. Secondly, Misha has taken the opportunity to shuck the two layers that stand between him and a state of glorious nakedness. Jensen will never, ever get tired of that. There was a third thing, he could have sworn there was, but it's gone - lost forever in the feline roll of Misha's hips as he slinks back with party favors in tow.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the glint of glass and a long, flawless stretch of skin as Misha sinks effortlessly to his knees then rocks back on his heels. Jensen starts to turn over and reach for his tumbler because honestly he needs the distraction, but Misha flattens a palm between his shoulder blades to gentle him back down. It really shouldn't make him sigh and close his eyes, shouldn't make him press his cheek against the floor, his cock stirring to languid life pinned beneath him at an odd angle. But Misha deals daily in shouldn'ts, so it's an assumption that Jensen would traffic in the same currency.

Then Misha's fingers slip beneath the waistband of his boxers, slim stripes of heat blooming on his skin where they touch, and he obeys the unspoken request happily when Misha's thumbs crook to ease that last scrap of fabric still caught between them down over his hips.

"You seem to be under the mistaken impression I'm your handmaiden," Misha says, his voice as infuriatingly even as ever.

Jensen pillows his head on his arms and arches his back, delighted when there's only the barest phantom of pain singing against his spine when he does. Oh yeah, Misha's good.

"I seem to remember there being some feudal lands ceded. You'd have to call my accountant," he responds, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, the nubby surface of the mat a strange sensation against his lips.

He hears Misha shift, feels the warmth of him hovering just beyond his reach and if Jensen were in any other condition, it'd be too much to take - Misha so close but not touching him. As it is, he's having a hard time staying put, all of his senses tuned and painfully aware, aching for...what? More is all he can say with certainty. Just. More. But if there was ever a good time, tonight is the night to beat Misha at his own game.

Which is, of course, why Misha chooses that precise moment to change it.

Misha's hand falls again, fingers flared wide and urgent across Jensen's shoulders. It's a good thing too, because when the first drops of liquid spill in the small of his back, Jensen's initial instinct is to tuck and roll, shove Misha across the room.

"What the fu..." is all he gets out before Misha bends, his tongue curling hot and slick, gathering up every last bit of what's been spilt with deliberate swipes that Jensen feels every-fucking-where. The scotch isn't cold exactly, he just wasn't expecting...

"Fuck!" Jensen grunts, and this time gets the entire word out, all the muscles in his back drawn bowstring tight because this time it _is_ cold, splashing as it is over the places Misha's tongue has just bathed. The hand spread against his shoulders pushes harder, just enough to gently flex his ribs, force the air from his lungs and damn if his cock doesn't twitch like it has a mind of its own.

Because really, if he wanted to, he could take Misha.

But he won't.

Misha's fingerprints etch into his skin. A puddle of lukewarm liquid pools precariously in the hollow at the base of his spine, sending out shivering little rivulets every time he twitches. Misha's other hand, the one not engaged in keeping him still, is roving, dragging swirls of scotch into nonsense patterns all over his back - so gentle and, fuck, sure and soothing that Jensen has to cinch his eyes shut tighter, sink his teeth into his forearm just to keep from breaking Misha's concentration.

Yeah, he won't.

Because he's _never_ been this turned on. Ever. To the point his brain can't really handle anymore when Misha dips his head again, tongues him clean, tiny mewling sounds caught in the back of his throat that spread and flare and light Jensen right the fuck up. Because he's being handled. No, not just handled, tended to with such all-encompassing care it makes him ache in places he doesn't remember giving permission to exist.

He never believed Misha capable of so much authenticity.

Another splash of scotch finds his skin, more liberal than the last two - tiny streams twisting down the slope of both hips, the crease of his ass.

And just. Fuck.

Misha chases them all, teeth scraping skin as he collects what's readily accessible before moving to...

"Misha," Jensen sighs, and shudders when Misha hums against him.

"Are you...?"

Jensen flushes hot and squirms, can't even ask the rest of the question because it's just too fucking much. But then Misha's fingers close vise-tight around his hips, yanking him to his knees, and Jensen dimly hears the scrape of metal on glass around the pounding in his ears.

Just. Fuck. Can't breathe. Can't. With the angle and the...

Another splash at the very tip of his tailbone and this time he feels it cut wet meandering paths down his thighs, feels Misha shift again and settle, knees tucked between Jensen's. Misha leads with his tongue, of course, then his lips, moist and soft, breath coming quick now and Jensen takes a moment to savor that small triumph before Misha's thumbs find just the right place to land and then...

Fucking fuck.

It takes everything Jensen has, every last shred of his self-control to not fly away or apart or kill them both in a spastic flurry of limbs, because he's never. Never. _Never_.

And it's so fucking good. Every nerve in Jensen's body comes alive, stringing stinging latticework patterns out from where Misha's tongue connects, his grip on Jensen's ass tightening briefly then easing, a silent but completely necessary reassurance that, yeah, he gets it. Jensen tries to assemble the tatters of his mind enough to remember how to breathe. The air sears his lungs raw when he sucks it through his teeth, redolent with sweat and Glenrothes and sex.

Misha isn't helping matters, because even as he pulls back to give him time to...freak the fuck out he supposes, Jensen still feels him waiting, poised and jungle-cat eager, brow a heavy scorching weight against his hip, teeth nipping absently because he can't seem to stop.

Can't stop, and Jesus, that sings under his skin like a choir of dearly depraved angels, pulls a series of quivers up the inside of his thighs and over the crest of his ass until he's shifting back, reaching for Misha the only way he can. He can do this. Fuck yeah, he can. So he pulls himself to his elbows, exhales slow and shaky, then braces.

Jensen feels ridiculous, spread and bared with no idea what to say but, "Misha," and that's not something that happens to him. Ever. Jensen is the guy that rolls with the punches, the guy that makes molehills of everyone else's mountains and prides himself on it. But thank fucking God Misha gets it, hears the _please_ and _yes_ so he doesn't actually have to say it.

Because when Misha's tongue finally touches down again, Jensen's vocabulary shrinks down to a single word.

"Fuuuuck."

Two words.

"Misha, fuck."

Then Misha hums again and swirls and pushes, and Jensen feels his heart skitter right up the ladder of his ribcage to lodge in his throat, until he's gulping like a goddamned guppy leagues away from his watery home, fighting desperately to hold himself still and open. Too good, too - fuck. Misha huffs a breath, nose flattened into the crease of Jensen's ass, and that nearly does him in completely. Because now, now he's thinking about the quirk of Misha's brow and that wide Cheshire smirk and that it's _his_ tongue pulling Jensen inside out with sweet, measured thrusts and curls. His elbows go out from under him all of a sudden, like his arms have just given up the fucking ghost, and he moans exactly how he wants to, no biting it back, like the only thing in the world that matters is Misha. Misha's lips. Misha's tongue. Just Misha and those rough little cat-licks he's using to open Jensen up.

He tries to say, "Misha," again, but even to his ears it just sounds like, "Mrmpsh," because if he moves a muscle save the gentle rocking rhythm he can't quite help, he's going to come all over himself like some fucking teenager. Then there's more pressure and the slick slide of Misha's fingers fitting alongside his tongue. Jensen gasps, a choked gurgling sound that originates somewhere deep in his chest, back arched, hips canted and urgent, the answering strangled moan that Misha breathes against his skin only pushing him higher, harder, faster.

So fucking good.

But that is it.

"Fuck Misha," he pants, and sinks his teeth into his lower lip, blood blooming on his tongue. "Can we get on with it? Please?"

Misha laughs quietly, muffled but satisfied, like this was the point all along. Jensen could give a shit about games now, his knees and legs and dick aching, his spine spring-loaded and just fucking ready. But then Misha leans back on a symphony of obscene, wet noises that wrap around his cock as surely as any hand, presses a sloppy closed-mouthed kiss against the round of his ass, and Jensen rocks against the fingers still stroking out their exasperatingly languid rhythm.

"What are we supposed to be getting on with exactly? I for one am perfectly..."

"Bullshit," Jensen growls, thrusts back again until he sees stars, until he feels fingernail scrape against _that_ spot, long before Misha has time to react and deny him the pleasure. "You want me to beg, I'll beg. You want me to whine like a goddamn bitch in heat, I'll do that too. But really, I'd rather you just fuck me without all the theatrics."

Jensen feels Misha's dick twitch sticky against the back of his thigh and it makes him brazen, makes him flatten one hand to the floor to prop himself up, makes him reach for Misha with the other and pull him flush.

"I'm askin'," he says and sighs, shoots a glance over his shoulder that he regrets almost immediately. Misha looks ready to eat him alive, teeth bared and pupils blown so wide there's only a sliver of blue left, and there's no hiding from that kind of intensity, even if he wanted to. Jensen watches Misha's chest heave twice then lets his head drop along with his hand, feels the loss when Misha frees his fingers, tries not to think about how much it's going to hurt.

Because in the grand scheme, it doesn't matter. He wants it, bad enough to ask, and Misha's moving, indistinct shuffling rustles and clicks that grind his teeth together. Then he's lining up, slick and soft and Jensen's muscles start to cramp with waiting, every molecule aching to push back and seat himself. Patience is a virtue he's short on right now, and he's ten seconds from saying something or getting up and going home when Misha sighs his name on the air and puts his back into it.

And Christ it hurts, just the first couple of inches, but Misha's rubbing wide, sweeping ovals against the base of his spine, murmuring nonsense he can't quite make out but that sounds like good and tight and perfect, and when the wave subsides the next thrust comes easier. Misha takes his time, working his way in with the kind of serene single-mindedness Jensen has always envied. Even though they're both dripping sweat now, twitching skitters bouncing between them in jittery feedback loops Jensen thinks he could live in, he still wants more. So he takes matters into his own hands, coils himself tight and pushes back until he feels so fucking full he could die from it, Misha's hipbones arched against his ass the only thing anchoring him to reality.

"Fuck," he breathes, because apparently he's back to that.

But Misha must be right there with him, because he echoes the sentiment, all that unflappable eloquence stripped down to basics now that he's sunk deep and shaking. Jensen moans, loud and long, when he rolls his hips just so. And something in Misha breaks open or apart and he grunts, a low feral sound that shatters Jensen into a thousand tiny pieces. It doesn't take long, Misha gone wild against him, slipping in sweat, and when his hand sneaks around to touch, wrap Jensen's cock up tight, the angle changes and all that's left is a cluster of comets sizzling against his retinas, his orgasm perched right there in the sharp slap of Misha's thighs against his, the twist and rub of Misha's barely-there calluses.

Just fuck.

It's truly over when Misha reaches to brace himself, his fingertips five hot points of pain in Jensen's shoulder and really he had no idea that was a kink until his bones grind together. Then Misha bears down harder and picks up speed, his nerves jangling and buzzing like an antique switchboard, and he does fly apart.

Everything washes white, tremors racking through him as he gasps and lets go all over Misha's hand and Misha curses again behind him, turns loose of his twitching cock to fit a palm against his hip, stutters out another half dozen rough thrusts and goes still, tight little animal noises bubbling up as he rocks his way through it.

Yeah.

Misha collapses against his back, panting, his heartbeat fluttering fast against Jensen's spine. And despite the sticky mess, when Misha's fingers fall against the nape of his neck, ruffling up the short hair, Jensen turns into it and sighs. He wishes they could stay like this, locked in the bright, fuzzy afterglow, but his knees have already voted down that idea and the exhaustion of the week's worth of stunts begins to creep back in, cracking his jaw with a yawn.

Apparently it's the appropriate response, because Misha chuckles and kisses the sweat-soaked patch of skin between his shoulder blades before sighing and starting to extricate himself.

"So's that really what nightcap means?" Jensen slurs and Misha almost-but-not-quite snorts. "If so, I've turned down way too many over the years."

"Only in my native tongue."

Jensen yawns again and stretches, rocks back onto his heels and starts sorting through the monsoon of clothes strewn, well, everywhere. Frankly, he's surprised as fuck his pants aren't hanging from the ceiling fan. They should _totally_ do this more often.

He's halfway through fumbling with a sock and failing miserably, before Misha's fingers close around his wrist, not pushing or pulling or doing anything but resting and giving him the option to decline when Misha says, "Stay." And damn if Misha doesn't fidget, his eyes darting to the door, the corners of the room, the floor, Jensen's fucking bellybutton - finding anything to focus on but Jensen's face while he waits for his answer.

How do you say no to that?

So instead of tugging his sock on the rest of the way, Jensen tosses it over his shoulder. Then he reaches, bends his hand around long, elegant arch of Misha's neck, sweeps his thumb against that place behind Misha's ear that he knows makes him shudder, and knocks their foreheads together gently before he breathes out the word, "Sure," for the second time. Then he's up, battle waged and won, his fingers hooked hard around the neck of the scotch bottle.

"Just brush your fucking teeth before you come to bed."

[Continue](http://docepax.livejournal.com/3682.html)


	3. Johnny Walker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misha wouldn't say he has a crush exactly, primarily because he's not a thirteen year old girl fawning over the latest issue of _Tean Beat_. Unfortunately, that fact doesn't seem to be making Jensen any less attractive.

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fic:rps](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/fic:rps), [pair:jensen/misha](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/pair:jensen/misha), [spn](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/spn), [verse:scotch](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/verse:scotch)  
  
---|---  
  
_**ScotchVerse: Johnny Walker**_  
**Title: Johnny Walker**   
**Verse:** Scotch  
**Author:** [](http://kadiel-krieger.livejournal.com/profile)[**kadiel_krieger**](http://kadiel-krieger.livejournal.com/)   
**Pairing:** Jensen/Misha   
**Rating:** R   
**Disclaimer:** Real people are real. These are not.   
**Warnings:** None.   
**AN:**Misha POV prequel, guys. If you care about timeline, this occurs a full three weeks before _Laphroaig_.Profuse gratitude to both [](http://me-so-geeky.livejournal.com/profile)[**me_so_geeky**](http://me-so-geeky.livejournal.com/) and [](http://thevinegarworks.livejournal.com/profile)[**thevinegarworks**](http://thevinegarworks.livejournal.com/) for pulling beta duties. Any leftover mistakes are mine and mine alone.

** Previous Installments **

>   
> [Laphroaig](http://docepax.livejournal.com/3185.html)   
> [The Glenrothes](http://docepax.livejournal.com/3421.html)   
> 

 

**Summary:** Misha wouldn't say he has a crush exactly, primarily because he's not a thirteen year old girl fawning over the latest issue of _Tean Beat_. Unfortunately, that fact doesn't seem to be making Jensen any less attractive.

 

Misha's not entirely certain why people feel so helplessly compelled to begin at the beginning. The vast majority of beginnings are mind-numbingly boring, not to mention rife with awkward expository nonsense, and he tends toward ignoring them for the better bits, the later bits that reveal the truth of a person.

If, for instance, he were to begin at the beginning of this, it'd be a great deal of polite conversation and hand shaking, listening to himself say painfully pedestrian things like, "Glad to be on board," and "Look forward to working with you," in Castiel's voice while Jensen narrows his eyes and tries in vain to pin him down.

He's not the pinned-down type.

Not in that sense of the word.

Thankfully, they're no longer even within shouting distance of the beginning. It's been over a year now and he's here amongst the crush of cast and crew alike as a series regular to celebrate either American independence or the kick-off of season five or both. He never got a definitive answer. Not that it matters, of course, a party is a party and Misha's unilaterally in favor of them, particularly when there's nudity involved. Mixed company precludes such things more often than it should. On the other hand, Jared lives for parties. He was made for them, in fact, except for the overactive sweat glands, and makes it his personal mission to see that everyone has a good time. Usually, this comes at either Misha or Jensen's expense. So until he knows without a doubt who the joke is on tonight, best not ingest anything he didn't prepare himself.

When Jared beams that wide Texas grin at him, when he winks and hands Misha two glasses of scotch then aims him in Jensen's general direction, Misha just goes with it. As much as he prefers to be the one driving, Jared's schemes almost always amuse him - sometimes solely by virtue of the fact they turn Jared into a something of a frenetic madman who got into a particularly potent stash of laughing gas.

But then, he has no intention of drinking something _Jared_ handed him - certainly not something he winked over - so his perspective is perhaps slightly skewed.

Truth be told, he enjoys having legitimate reasons to put himself inside Jensen's comfort zone, just beyond that sphere he's carefully delineated between himself and the rest of the world. The circles get smaller the longer you know him, of course, but they never seem to disappear. As long as Jensen has been in the business, Misha's always imagined he'd have ample opportunity to develop a defter hand at dealing - not that he's imagined at all, mind.

Misha maintains his own buffers, naturally. They just happen to present themselves as random, vigorous proclamations of utter bullshit paired with varying degrees of harmless indulgence. He's found truth to be a malleable thing and long ago decided that it's more important to be convincing than right. Confusion and misdirection are far better instruments of deflection than those Jensen seems to have chosen. But then, Jensen also doesn't seem to have any real problem with being thought of as shy. Misha prefers quirky or eccentric. As far as the industry is concerned, shy becomes standoffish on its way to difficult, and he needs the work. Jensen will always have his looks to fall back on, and they'll undoubtedly spin his careful barricades as mystery rather than what they are.

Of course, he and his pretty face have claimed far more vigilant victims than the overwrought PR darlings charged with handling his press.

Misha considers himself one - of circumstance at the very least - yet he's always handled such things with an odd mix of self-brevity and ironic amusement that he's been told translates as flippant conceit to those not living between his ears. In this case, it works in his favor. As far as he can tell, Jensen still hasn't quite figured it out and that buys him time.

While it's not the first, or likely even last, tentative foray into the wild kingdom of office romance, it's certainly the most interesting. Primarily because Jensen just so happens to be a guy. Now, that's not to say he hasn't tripped over the line a time or twelve. Like truth, gender has always been a fairly malleable concept and not really a consideration when he's selecting potential playmates. For him, attraction tends to be more about personality than physicality, but when the twain happen to meet, especially in the form of Jensen Ackles, he's all for letting them.

Unfortunately for him, Jensen's _not_ interested.

Oh he hasn't said as much, hasn't been offered the opportunity. With a consummate guy's guy like Jensen, Misha knows better. Most of the time he settles for talking Jensen into a logical corner just to see him squirm, to watch his eyes flash and his nostrils flare, because annoyance is nearly as good as passion for that. There are times though, especially in the midst of a scene, when he sees that spark behind Jensen's eyes and it has nothing to do with Dean Winchester or Castiel or the adulation Misha oozes from his very pores every time he, no Castiel, looks at Dean. Grasping at straws is not a habit he cares to indulge, but with such a delicious prize in the offing, giving up hope entirely still seems premature.

Patience often eludes him, but he can wrangle it for Jensen's sake.

"I bear intoxication of the Scottish persuasion," he says and smiles, carefully polite. Careful because the way Jensen's brow furrows with concentration as he guards his end of the air hockey table, the way he's gnawing his lower lip plump and pink and ripe for all sorts of naughtiness does things to Misha's blood he prefers to ignore. Then Jensen fairly levels him with a lazy, lopsided smile that betrays the fact he's already sitting somewhere between half and three-quarters of the way in the bag and Misha can't help but wonder what might happen if he fell all the way in.

"You always bring me the best gifts," Jensen says happily before dropping his paddle on the table with a clatter and liberating one of the glasses from Misha's hand. He tosses the contents back in one long pull. Okay, perhaps two. With his head tipped back that way, the curve of Jensen's throat shifts from merely enticing all the way over into distracting, and Misha finds himself with a score of unimpeachable reasons for having lost count and not a single compelling one to correct Jensen with regards to who is doing the gifting.

"Remind me to announce my candidacy for the Nobel Peace Prize in the morning," he says and smiles, though he has absolutely no idea what he's ever given Jensen worth remembering.

"I could so go for some Twizzlers right now," is all Jensen mutters in response and Misha would take it for a drunken non sequitur, except he vaguely remembers bringing Jensen a bag the week Jared was on vacation. Jared, proving himself more sensible than Misha ever gave him credit for, had locked his trailer down tight before departing and left the legion of P.A.'s strict instructions about who to call if the no admittance policy were even tangentially violated. In retrospect, it strikes Misha as borderline ridiculous that instead of buying a package of his own or asking one of the legion to find him some, Jensen spent most of that Monday sulking. So that when Misha showed up on set in the wee hours of Tuesday morning with Twizzlers dangling between his fingers, Jensen acted as if he'd just cured some rare strain of brain cancer.

Unfortunately for Misha, he's not in the habit of toting Twizzlers in his coat pocket. Instead of making pointless apologies he wouldn't really mean, he plucks the empty glass from Jensen's hand and replaces it with the full. In a rational world, alcohol always trumps candy and Misha already knows Johnny Walker too well. According to set legend, he also has a thousand and one reasons to stay sober. Though he harbors no delusions as to whether or not hearsay can be believed, Misha's more than willing to hang around and see, especially if the rumors are, in fact, true.

Misha smiles when Jensen tightens his grip on the second glass and sucks down its contents as well.

"S'not a Twizzler, but it'll do."

Jensen licks his lips and returns the smile, his eyes hooded, and this time there's definitely a promise glinting in the green. If Jensen were any less of a grown-up Misha would feel obliged to hold himself accountable for encouraging bad behavior. But he's not, so Misha doesn't. In fact, among consenting adults, Misha is fairly notorious for encouraging bad behavior, so it's not like this is some wild departure from the norm.

"I'm overcome by the burden of your gratitude."

"Oh, right. Thanks?" Jensen says and pulls a rough, fumbling hand through his hair in such a very Dean way that Misha fears for the tenuous state of the fourth wall. Then there's a well-muscled arm draped across the back of his neck, fingers tap-tap-tapping against his collarbone, and he decides that three walls are plenty.

Naturally, Jared chooses that precise moment to meander over.

"Is he?" Jared says, his features crumpled by an overly theatrical mockery of Sam's bitchface.

"Tripping the light fantastic it seems."

"In my defense, only one of those was supposed to be for him."

"Hey, _he's_ standing right the fuck here," Jensen chuckles to himself and mumbles indignantly under his breath then leans on Misha a little harder. Misha really doesn't mind, except for the part where Jensen outweighs him by at least twenty pounds. Even that becomes a passing concern when Jensen's thumb creeps up the side of his neck and strokes into the hollow behind his ear like it belongs there.

Jared, in a classic display of the younger sibling archetype, just claps a hand over his mouth to hide his grin and presses Jensen's keys into Misha's hand.

"Mea culpa man, it was supposed to be a joke."

"I notice you're taking full responsibility for the results."

"I think I'll defer to the judgment of the unintoxicated in all matters," Jared says, "You are, right? Good to go?"

"First thing, don't expect this to become a habit. And second, yes. I am sadly, painfully sober."

Admittedly, it's a broad exaggeration. Having Jensen Ackles wrapped around you like a flesh-eating flytrap is neither sad nor painful, and definitely something Misha could grow accustomed to. And he certainly doesn't mind not being under the influence, especially if it means what he thinks it might.

For his part, Jared simply leers, waggles his brows and stage whispers, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," loud enough for the entire room to hear before dissolving back into the throng.

Jensen huffs a laugh against Misha's neck then shifts so that he's carrying seventy rather than forty percent of his weight, lets his hand drop and his fingers close around Misha's shoulder. Even drunk, Jensen's so incredibly careful, he's practically begging to be mussed.

Misha knows the type and it doesn't surprise him that Jensen's a member of that particular club - all perfectly perpendicular angles and furiously tidy rooms, easygoing until life slides just a bit out of square. Knowing makes his job both infinitely easier and more difficult. Everyone, everyone besides perhaps Misha himself, has a point beyond which they won't allow themselves to be pushed. Time and care are the only viable tactics unfortunately, and he has already deemed Jensen worth it.

So he simply sighs and settles his hand innocently into the curve of Jensen's waist, then steers him towards one of the many doors that lead to the parking lot.

Fresh air greets them in a rush when Misha elbows the door open, and it helps more than he cares to admit. Helps, that is, until Jensen pulls his own lungful, his arm flexing tight, and Misha finds himself crushed up against all that solid warmth he's already decided he should probably disregard for the time being.

Because Jensen's really very drunk and Misha, for his myriad other faults and flaws, doesn't like to take advantage.

"Hey, we're outside."

"Wonderful, one of those."

Misha also decides it's probably best not to think about the fact that Jensen manages to make drunk endearing, his neck a gently bowed crescent of tendons drawn tight, head canted, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he presumably counts the stars or whatever else improbably wasted people do when they look at the sky. Misha tends to ponder oddities - odder oddities than usual and ask a string of maddeningly rhetorical questions. Questions like, if he had imbibed, would he be clinging so desperately to his control? Or would he have already given in and flattened Jensen against the nearest solid surface the better to suck bruises onto his Adam's apple?

"One of what?"

"One of those drunks that fixate on stating the obvious."

"Not drunk."

"Like that," Misha says and smirks, thankful they're closing in on the car albeit along a stumbling sideways path.

"Wait, what?"

"Exactly."

"So I'm officially confused," Jensen leans into him again, teeth flashing white in the moonlight, and he's so close and so delightfully off-kilter that Misha can barely contain himself. The sooner he gets Jensen into the passenger seat and tucked safely away at home, the sooner he can let the better devils of his nature have the pound of flesh they're demanding. Just his flesh, for now.

"Which is understandable. Because you're drunk."

The alarm beeps cheerily when he turns it off, and Jensen snorts a laugh.

"M'not," Jensen protests, but then negates it by both palming and pressing his cheek to the roof of the car when Misha lets go long enough to swing the door open.

"If you find yourself unable to follow the thread of the conversation I just attempted to have with you," he says, and bends down to clear the passenger seat of its contents, "then you are past the point of..."

That's the last word Misha manages to thread from his brain through his vocal chords and out to his lips for a long while, because when he straightens to help Jensen into the car, he finds he's caged. Jensen's rooted, his elbows planted, and he's looking far more predatory than anyone so inebriated has a right to.

"God Misha, what you do to me," he sighs, a real - nearly somber - smile twisting his mouth into appealing shapes. Then he shuffles the six inches closer until Misha can taste the scotch fumes pluming on his breath. Fuck, he's only human and this would certainly be considered cruel and unusual, even by the likes of Batista. A token objection is all he has left to voice, but that dies unspoken as well when Jensen closes the distance clumsily, not so daring as to simply take but brave enough to rest his forehead against Misha's and shut his eyes.

If tomorrow or the next day, or a year from now, Misha were held at gunpoint and forced to identify the precise moment of his rather spectacular undoing at the hands of Jensen Ackles, that soft sweep of girlishly long lashes against his cheek would be it.

Because Jensen _is_ interested.

It takes considerable effort to keep still, more to keep his voice steady. Easy. It would be so simple to angle his head and tilt his chin and claim that sweet pout in the name of Misha Collins, but - and it's a big but - it has to be Jensen's decision, especially now.

"I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate," he says, grateful in the moment that Jensen's so far gone, because apparently he's traded brains with an astonishingly obtuse toaster oven.

For whatever it's worth, Jensen must catch the clue, because in one breath Misha's considering the best way to disentangle himself without suffering the uncomfortable consequences of manhandling Jensen into the car, and in the next Jensen's lips slant against his with an intoxicating blend of skill and uncertainty that leaves him with no real choice but to kiss back.

Right now, Jensen tastes like the smoky sweetness of Johnny Walker over a tart, tangy something - probably whatever it was that eased him from sobriety over into tipsy - but under that there's a hint of mint and maybe the seven-layer dip Jeannie brought. It doesn't matter because Jensen's _kissing_ him, tongue urging lazily past his lips and tangling. Restraint is the very last thing on Misha's mind when he reaches out to steady Jensen, fingers unfurled in the small of his back and over the pulse pounding hard just beneath the slope of his jaw.

Even drunk, Jensen kisses as if it's a competition, pace and pressure on the rise until he truly is flushed up against Misha, puffing soft little gasps against his skin, every ridge of hard muscle rubbing in increasingly interesting ways, one knee nudged between his and if he had half a mind...

A screen door creaks open then rattles closed, a brief burst of frenzied laughter blooms thick on the air punctuated by some mindlessly throbbing bass line, while Misha tries desperately to remember how to be the responsible one. With the tip of Jensen's tongue teasing against his, such things are far easier said than done. In the end, logic wins out. Now that he's got Jensen precisely where he wants him he's hardly in the mood to suffer interruption at the hands of an overly curious crewmember or, God forbid, Jared.

Jensen, it seems, has other ideas, because when Misha tries to extricate himself he only wraps tighter, pushes harder. Luckily though, alcohol dulls the reflexes, so he grabs Jensen's wrists and squirms free. The effort earns him a disgruntled look.

"What the...you going somewhere?"

"Away," Misha can't resist thumbing the slick swell of Jensen's lower lip, and it's not until he feels the teeth close around his fingertip, the soft pull of suction that he remembers where they are and why he needs to be the adult for once.

"Away," he mutters again and takes a step back, slides his thumb free, trying to clear his head, shake loose the fog. When Jensen tries to gather him back in, it takes a firm hand - palm pressed to breastbone - and the dull thud of flesh against metal that sounds painful to him draws a thready moan out of Jensen's chest.

Misha files that tidbit away for later.

Jensen pulls a face when Misha takes another, very careful, step back.

"Petulance accomplishes nothing, but if you would just _get in the car_ you're more than welcome to tag along."

That appears to do the trick. Before Misha can get the driver's side door unlocked, Jensen's settled and buckled, his seat leaned all the way back, eyes ratcheted closed, fingers plucking restlessly at the hem of his T-shirt. It's damn distracting, and as Misha closes the car door behind him it slams perhaps a little too loudly.

Jensen tenses then curses, but in the end simply sinks down further against the leather with a sigh.

When the car purrs to life and Jensen doesn't twitch, Misha fears he's finally lost that gallant battle with blackout. In any case, he's genuinely surprised that five minutes later, with the highway spooling steadily out beneath the tires, Jensen clears his throat.

"Just so we're clear," he says, his voice firm but so soft Misha has to strain to hear him over the road noise, "I know what I'm doing. And I meant it."

"It?" he asks, and yes, perhaps it sounds a little smug but he thinks he's well within his rights at this point.

"You make me crazy."

"Ah." That. Which, to be fair, is not what Jensen said. It is, however, infinitely better. Or worse, if you just so happen to be Jensen. These sorts of ubiquitous statements always give Misha ideas.

"Not always in a good way."

"What fun would that be?"

"I guess we'll find out the day I forget to walk away."

"And the alternative is?"

"Hard to say. Felt like punching you more than once, but now..." The moon casts plenty of shadows into the interior of the car, and Jensen shifts until they scatter on his face, obscuring whatever it is he thinks might be laid bare.

"Now it might be best to keep walking away?"

"I guess."

"At least in public."

"I didn't mean..."

"Never imagined you did."

"But yeah, I..."

"No need to make the natives restless," Misha says, even though he generally falls on the opposite end of that particular assertion. But then, he also considers wreaking harmless havoc something of an art form. It makes sense that Jensen doesn't, because he has much more to lose.

"Or give them an eyeful."

"Though a leaked YouTube video or two might well push my minion enlistment numbers past the fifty thousand mark."

"You wouldn't."

"If you have to ask then you don't really know me at all, Jen."

"Wasn't asking."

"Good."

"Are we actually having a serious conversation?"

"Only because you're drunk and won't remember it in the morning."

"Of course," Jensen says, and it sounds so forlorn that Misha manages to hold his tongue long enough to piece together the Kandinskian collection of conversations they've had over the past year.

Jensen's right, but it doesn't change anything. His defenses may be structured differently, but they're no less formidable. Just because he finds his own bullshit endlessly entertaining doesn't necessarily mean everyone does. Obviously, not everyone does.

Yet, what call is there, really, for an apology. Until an hour ago, he was protecting himself against getting too involved and two days from now, he may be doing the same. Altered states yield unpredictable results, and actors in general are infamously changeable.

Then again, Jensen isn't just some actor. He and Jared are two of the most down-to-earth people Misha's had the pleasure to know, even without qualifying the question according to any label. And somewhere in that abstract jumble, Misha remembers Jensen trying - asking about his family, what DC was like - he was just too locked down to offer anything resembling truth.

The Stanley Park exit sign pops green in his periphery and he eases over. It's a nice night - well, early morning - crisp and breezy - ripe with the sort of promise that invariably makes his life more difficult. The sky stretches on forever, boundless black, unusually cloudless and littered with pinprick spots of light shining valiantly against the city glow.

It's the only neutral, quiet, familiar place he can think of that allows visitors at four in the morning. Besides, it's been years since he's voluntarily witnessed a sunrise and he's not ready to turn Jensen loose just yet. Jensen must have passed out from either the liquor or exhaustion somewhere between Burnaby and the park, because when Misha pulls into a parking spot at Brockton Point and shuts the car off, he stretches and yawns like he can't catch a breath then swings a sleepy look Misha's way.

"I don't remember my place having barges in the yard. Or, y'know, ocean instead of actual yard."

"Whereas the lighthouse and suspension bridge are precisely where they should be."

Jensen rolls his eyes, but there's a quick smile that skitters furtively across his face before he yawns again. Misha takes the opportunity to get out and walk, pull himself away to catch an unfettered breath. In general he finds Jensen exceedingly distracting, but every second spent alone in such close quarters, with him so pliant and accommodating, threatens to tug Misha free of that slip of decency he's clutching onto.

What he can't quite work out is why, of all the inconvenient times, he's picked now to grow a conscience.

All he's managed to determine is that he actually _likes_ Jensen rather than just entertaining a general amorphous notion that, yes, he might like to fuck him at some point. Maybe even more than once. The fact that they work together only makes things...not worse, but stickier and Misha is not exactly good at careful.

Especially when he's already so attuned he can feel the mild irritation rolling off Jensen in waves and is fully aware he thinks Misha's running for no reason, being a coward. He's so damn subconsciously _aware_, he knows without looking that Jensen's following and can read the brisk crush of his boots against the grass, the not-quite-sigh he huffs as if it's written.

He blames Castiel.

"Hey," is all Jensen says aloud, and sometimes Misha would give his right arm or testicle or at least a significant lock of his hair to be allowed that economy of speech - the luxury of simplicity, but the illusion of eccentricity requires constant maintenance.

"Hey," Jensen says again and Misha feels fingers slide between two layers of fabric, followed by a gentle tug against his belt and he's freefalling, finally unbridled by, of all things, Jensen's concern.

When Misha turns, Jensen stumbles drunkenly into him, slipping in the damp. With his fingers latched on the way they are Misha tumbles after, albeit with a little more grace. It deposits them in an ungainly, dew-soaked sprawl, knee to hip and chest to chin. Jensen's laughter rings loud against the whisper of wind and lapping waves, eyes crinkling at the corners in that bewitching way, grass clippings caught in his hair and stuck to the side of his neck. Even as his teeth rattle together with the sharp rise and fall of Jensen's ribs, Misha can't quite manage to reign himself back in.

Jensen's peering down at him, so open and artless, desire carved in every tiny tic, the restless wander of his hands, the way his skin is practically vibrating, asking to be touched, to be handled, to be taken.

Fuck it.

His peace can be made tomorrow, because he's neither angel nor saint and Jensen _wants_ him.

It requires no effort at all to slide the ten necessary inches, to swing a leg across Jensen's hips, to find Jensen's mouth and cover it with his own and swallow the happy little noise Jensen makes when he licks those obscenely pretty lips open. No effort at all.

Feels like falling in every way that counts - equal parts freedom and fright - because of all the nearly infinite things he's imagined, this halting tango they've been weaving all over the city is the last one he expected. Certainly he never anticipated Jensen arched under him, hips rocking out a hypnotic rhythm that drags reluctant sounds between his teeth and shudders up his spine. Though he may well have, in a fit of pique and ego, imagined Jensen breathing his name like a blessing and fumbling those fingers up under his shirt.

Reassuring, that he wasn't entirely wrong.

When they find skin, Misha loses track of his expectations, focus narrowed down to one and one thing only - Jensen. The way he begs with his hands. The way he curls into every touch. The way he moves like it can never be enough. It's terrifying being drawn into Jensen's orbit - insatiable hunger and thirst, a thousand shadowed shards of charm that could slice him into something unrecognizable.

The only defense left to him is the last one he should depend on - himself.

It'll have to be enough.

[Continue](http://docepax.livejournal.com/4049.html)


	4. Stone Cold

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fic:rps](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/fic:rps), [pair:jensen/misha](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/pair:jensen/misha), [spn](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/spn), [verse:scotch](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/verse:scotch)  
  
---|---  
  
_**ScotchVerse: Stone Cold**_  
**Title: Stone Cold**   
**Verse:** Scotch  
**Author:** [](http://kadiel-krieger.livejournal.com/profile)[**kadiel_krieger**](http://kadiel-krieger.livejournal.com/)   
**Pairing:** Jensen/Misha   
**Rating:** PG-13 to R  
**Disclaimer:** Real people are real. These are not.   
**Warnings:** None.   
**AN:**Misha POV. Picks up the morning after _The Glenrothes_. Linear storytelling? PISH. My undying gratitude goes out to [](http://thevinegarworks.livejournal.com/profile)[**thevinegarworks**](http://thevinegarworks.livejournal.com/), [](http://ru-salki99.livejournal.com/profile)[**ru_salki99**](http://ru-salki99.livejournal.com/) and [](http://blackonice.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackonice**](http://blackonice.livejournal.com/) for pulling beta duties and patting my writerly hand. Any leftover mistakes are mine and mine alone.

>   
> ** Other works in the Scotch!Verse **   
> [Laphroaig](http://docepax.livejournal.com/3185.html)   
> [The Glenrothes](http://docepax.livejournal.com/3421.html)   
> [Johnny Walker](http://docepax.livejournal.com/3682.html)   
> 

 

On a typical morning, the act of waking tends to be less akin to bluffing a stellar hand of high-stakes poker and more of a graceless fumble towards consciousness by way of caffeine. Given the state of things, both the toned arm slung carelessly across his stomach and the soft tufts of hair tickling the side of his neck, Misha finds himself inclined to consider this morning a pleasantly atypical one. He hopes that to be the case anyway, but then Jensen is rather like a kaleidoscopic puzzle - one that continues to change shade and shape even after Misha declares it solved.

As of yet, he's undecided about whether he loves or loathes that about Jensen. At the very least, it makes their encounters interesting. Still, not knowing what to expect leaves Misha at a disadvantage he has become accustomed to avoiding, and while he has yet to determine if the uneasy churn in his gut makes things better or worse he can concede on a single point.

He's relieved - that he asked, that Jensen stayed, that for whatever hurdles stand between him and his answers Jensen chose not to disappear in the middle of the night. Even caught without a clue as to how Jensen might react, Misha still prefers to meet that reaction head on.

Once he hears the deep, even draw of breath hissing on the heels of a nonsensical murmur, Misha lets the hastily constructed mask slip into a smile. Eager though he may be to find out how Jensen will handle this thing between them when sober, a brief reprieve still comes as a welcome surprise. It affords him the opportunity to collect himself, prepare.

It also gives him a chance to be absurdly fond without an audience.

Sleep transforms Jensen in an entirely disarming way. With the coal-colored curl of lashes swept low against his cheeks, with his guard lowered and face gone lax, Jensen looks so incredibly boyish Misha almost feels guilty - almost. Truth be told, if he were a different sort of man, Misha might feel as if he is the one being played. In his world, thankfully, that just so happens to be a complete impossibility.

Only he has the right to pull strings.

What that unimpeachable fact doesn't prevent is Jensen tugging or, hell, yanking at them with lackadaisical abandon, and at this point his assertions stand only as cold comfort to his ego - a way to reassure himself he's no prancing marionette for one Jensen Ackles. But he is either currently, or is in imminent danger of becoming one, if the solitary honest bone in his body is to be believed, and it's ridiculously draining.

Perhaps it's meant to be. Perhaps Jensen is his karmic comeuppance, the proverbial chicken coming home to roost thanks to the hundred lines of bullshit he's woven through the tapestry of his life, the thousands of innocents that have tramped willingly in one door, allowed themselves to be beguiled, and then wavered drunkenly out the other door none the wiser.

Perhaps karma, in her infinite esoteric grace, doesn't appreciate his singular sense of humor.

Regardless of the reason, Jensen has become a logistical thorn in his sizable paw, unwittingly coaxing him into actions that normal circumstances would preclude. Not that he's above seduction, or even flushing a cowering quail from the underbrush - quite the contrary. But, in Misha's mind at least, there's a clear distinction between pursuit and embarrassment, a line he's been skirting for far too long with Jensen.

So yes, he allows himself the smile before he shimmies out from under Jensen's arm, because the warm sigh huffed against his shoulder and the blind, seeking fumble as he slides just out of reach, already feel a little like triumph.

One thing's certain; yesterday's lunch will not carry either of them through the deliciously strenuous agenda he intends to bring to fruition once Jensen wakes up. That's if, of course, everything goes as planned. Statistically speaking, luck tends to sway his way more often than not. But this is Jensen, and Jensen muddles.

Wondering won't make anything more or less likely to happen, so instead of indulging in any more pointless navel-gazing, he slips into last night's pants and pads down the hall to the kitchen in search of much needed sustenance. Turns out, he's not exactly in a position to be entertaining. He manages, somehow, to unearth a half dozen Rabbit River eggs, a generous handful of Hui's oyster mushrooms, two pepper halves and a not-entirely-marginal block of sharp-ish cheddar.

Although it does not a kingly feast make, the protein will come in handy. Not to mention the fact that cooking centers him. It's almost meditative in its simplicity - chopping and cracking and whisking - which may be why Misha doesn't hear Jensen moving until he's propped against the doorframe on an elbow, fully dressed, looking tousled and far more delectable than the yolky mess swishing around in his pan.

Sadly, Jensen also looks guarded.

"So now you're Jamie Oliver, too?" he asks, craning his neck in lieu of actually coming any closer.

Perhaps they aren't going to be treading the easy road after all.

"I am talented in ways you've never even heard of," Misha says and smiles, flipping the first omelet closed before sliding it off onto a plate.

"Dude, that's a hunk of ham shy of Denver, not rocket science."

Jensen huffs an almost laugh and scrubs a hand across his face on a sigh. Misha's seen the look before countless times. Charming though he may be, if he wants to send someone fleeing into the night, he's perfectly equipped to do so. Why his best behavior appears to be jittering Jensen out of his skin like an unfixed junkie, he hasn't the slightest. When Jensen starts worrying his lower lip into a plump, pretty purse Misha decides the second omelet could use his undivided attention. Besides, it will give Jensen at least the illusion of privacy to work out whatever internal tangle he's tied himself up in. It takes the space of six even breaths, but in the end, Jensen opts to join Misha in the kitchen instead of hovering on the threshold.

Small though the victories may be, Misha finds he's rather pathetically thankful for them.

Jensen still looks as if he's about to go before a firing squad though, and an execution is not exactly what Misha had in mind. Death by omelet would likely be messier than it's worth. Perhaps it's time to reevaluate. Misha lets the silence settle, busies himself pulling glass and flatware out of the cabinets and drawers.

By the time Jensen scrapes a chair away from the table and sits, Misha has begun to muse about what went so horribly awry in Jensen's life, what it was that turned him into this nuclear reaction waiting to happen. He realizes, albeit belatedly, that this _isn't_ exactly normal and the only answer is still the most obvious one.

Sex. Sex followed by sobriety, anyway.

Misha understands that people in general have very traditional social constructs they live within, that Jensen's Texan roots are likely to be more thoroughly saturated than most. Yet, it still baffles him how often people use inebriation as a convenient excuse to explore those secret desires their Mommas and Daddies wagged their tongues and fingers over.

The hope that Jensen might be different appears to have been in vain.

Perhaps he's a bit careless when he moves the plates from counter to table, but if so, it's only because he's grown tired of accommodating Jensen's uncertainty, carrying the rather unwieldy burden of this - whatever this is - for the both of them. When a fork clatters down alongside the omelet, Jensen narrows his eyes, first at the fork and then at Misha himself.

Were it anyone else, that act alone would be reason enough to send them packing. It's knowledge that settles uneasily between Misha's ribs with an unwanted weight, because this pattern they've fallen into does neither of them any good. Yet, what Misha wants, he typically gets and the challenge of Jensen - the near lunacy of his indecision, that need for alcohol-infused escape, the sweet capitulation followed by fortification - still holds sway.

All because Misha can't handle losing.

When he digs down into the bones of it, he simply wants Jensen, the real Jensen. He's had more than his fill of the intoxicatingly pliable version and ten minutes with this edgy, tentative, wounded-bird incarnation has only served to chase his appetite off to parts unknown. So he doesn't set his plate at the place opposite Jensen. He certainly doesn't sit in strained silence and mechanically move fork to mouth. No, the path he chooses is the only one left to him where he retains the slightest sliver of self-respect.

Jensen twitches ever so slightly when Misha crowds him, and that's enough. Whatever the outcome, it's long past time for this to resolve into something, or not.

Takes some doing, but he manages to wriggle into the space between Jensen and the table, wind his legs and hook his heels around the chair until the narrow span of Jensen's hips is caught securely between his thighs. Jensen finally looks up at him when Misha curls his fingers into the angle of Jensen's jaw, thumbs drawn instinctively to the sharp sweep of cheekbone. This close and with the sun filtering through the curtains, he can see the soft flecks of gold in Jensen's eyes, eyes that have gone wide with either fear or doubt or both. Which is something of an answer, but Misha needs to hear it.

"What is this to you, Jensen?"

For five aching seconds he manages to sustain the hard-won eye contact, but then those girlish lashes flutter and fall and he's left counting the haphazard spray of freckles dashed across Jensen's eyelids instead. Unfortunately, that gets him no closer to his answers. So he leans in to take what he wants, pressing his luck to the breaking point and beyond simply because he can, because he's tired of being careful and obliging and patient, because he's Misha Fucking Collins.

When his lips land, Jensen jolts so violently he's sure of only one thing - that this will inevitably end with him on the floor and a flurry of hastily strung together expletives. It takes a moment, maybe two, but after a sharp inhale and brief clench of muscle Jensen opens to him in a mysteriously fluid rush of breath and tongue, warm hands climbing up the ladder of his spine until Misha finally feels like he's not in this alone. It's a comforting thought, one he decides to latch onto, primarily because he doesn't much care for wasting time and if Jensen...

But then Jensen's drawing back, trying to slam the walls down between them with his teeth, his palms flattened against Misha's chest and pushing, mumbling nonsense against Misha's mouth.

Fuck.

The want blooming low in his belly turns then, flares into an entirely different sort of burn and before the signals actually read from limb to brain, he's levered himself out of Jensen's lap, fisted his hands in the front of Jensen's T-shirt, spun and pinned him against the doorframe. When Jensen grunts then moans from somewhere deep in his chest, when his eyes roll back along with his head, it's the last thing Misha expects to happen.

Okay, maybe not the last.

Still, it means he has Jensen's undivided attention focused precisely where it should be.

"What is this to you, Jensen?" he says again, trying rather unsuccessfully to control the sharper edges that creep unbidden into the question because he can't quite keep himself from asking it.

Jensen sighs, and Misha feels it ghost through his hair, gooseflesh breaking across the back of his neck and down his arms. It's irritating to be affected by such a small thing when he's trying to make a point, so he decides to ignore all the other little reactions that surface in favor of pushing onward. He encounters no resistance when he molds his hands to the shape and slope of Jensen's jaw line again, his thumbs inexorably finding that familiar ridge of bone when he tips Jensen's head down. Eye contact makes figuring out the truth of a thing easier, and even though Jensen's eyes have lied before Misha hopes sobriety can help draw back the veil.

Unfortunately, for all his bodily compliance, Jensen appears completely content to avoid conversation.

That's that, then.

Misha exhales, resigned, and begins to extricate himself. Verbal confirmation or no, the answer's clear in the thin press of Jensen's lips. Or it seems as such until he feels fingers wrap vice-tight around both of his wrists when he tries to pull away entirely.

"Do we have to?" Jensen asks, his voice barely audible above the steady hum of appliances and central air.

It takes a concerted effort, but Misha manages to stay put, finds a way to answer plainly as he's able.

"Yes."

Jensen's grip tightens almost painfully, then goes slack until Misha fears him lost again to that battle raging between his ears. It must be exhausting.

"I didn't think you gave a shit about labels."

"I don't."

"So why? Why can't we just let it...be?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. No. Jesus, Misha. I don't know," he says, and does turn loose at last, wipes palms to thighs and tries to stare a hole through the unfortunate section of hardwood stretched between them.

"Which question are you answering, exactly? With which answer?"

"All of them. I don't know to every-fucking-thing, okay?"

"Ah," Misha replies, because what else is there to say? Jensen doesn't know what he wants - if he even wants - and this has stretched so far past indulgent he's beginning to feel ten times a fool.

In that case, there's absolutely no sense in letting a good omelet go to waste. Even though his agenda's been blown to hell and back, he's still hungry. He doesn't expect Jensen to follow him. Then again, he's done expecting much of anything from Jensen, so Misha's surprised when he does trail after, even if he paces restlessly between the window and sink instead of sitting down like a human being might be inclined to do.

Misha has no such problem.

Jensen lets the silence stretch until it apparently becomes too much to bear. When he does finally speak, it manifests as little more than a frustrated rush of air.

"Is that all you've got? Ah?"

"What is it that you're looking for, Jensen?" Misha asks and spears a bite. Depending on cooling breakfast foods for distraction must be a new all time low. It's without a doubt one he never thought he'd see.

"Something more than, 'Ah' would be nice. Guts spilled here, man."

"You honestly think, 'I don't know' equates to spilling your guts? You do realize how ridiculous that sounds, don't you?"

"Well, what is it _you're_ looking for, Misha?" Jensen spits out, and the tone tells. As does the way he flips the chair around in one long scrape, the way he slumps into it, surly and sarcastic and defiant by turns.

Misha cuts another section of omelet free, chews carefully, and then swallows before answering, "Apparently, nothing."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"That I seem to have made a grave miscalculation."

"Care to vague that up a little? You know, just for those of us not inside your head."

"Are you really so obtuse or is it simply for my benefit?"

This time Misha sets his fork aside, commends the rest of his not-quite-Denver omelet to the thoroughly capricious breakfast gods that untied Jensen's tongue just enough to ruin his meal.

"Misha, seriously. I'm talking, or trying to at least. Give me a break. I may be hung-over, but I'm sadly fucking sober."

Therein lies the problem, it seems. Misha can't decide which element of this whole scenario irks him more - that he wants something besides drunken fondling, that he's coddled Jensen for so long without trying to pin him down, or that Jensen seems to have no idea what the problem is. It's not as if he's asking for that much, or anything at all but acknowledgement. Jensen's powers of perception extend at least that far. Labels only serve to complicate otherwise uncomplicated things.

Nothing drives him quite as crazy as indecision, except perhaps indifference, and he's already been more patient than he thought possible.

Both omelets, what remains of them at any rate, make sad little plops at the bottom of the garbage can when Misha scrapes the plates clean. What a waste. He wonders now, if this confrontation really served his best interests, if he couldn't have simply gone on plying Jensen with more and more ridiculously expensive varieties of scotch. Truth may indeed be a malleable thing, but the further you bend it the more likely it is to break under the strain.

He needs more. Sex is something he can get anywhere, given time and inclination.

Jensen, the Jensen before all this bullshit, is truly one-of-a-kind. Unfortunately, he also appears to have left the building.

"I'm not interested in wasting anyone's time, least of all my own."

"And is that what this is to _you_? A waste of time?"

If he were sane, Misha would say yes. He'd shout it from every damn rooftop in the Vancouver metro. But no one has ever accused him of being remotely sane, and the absolute fact is that it wasn't a waste of time. As long as he thought there was a chance that something might come of it, that someday Jensen might come to him willingly without the taste of liquor on his lips, it had not been a waste of time.

Regrettably, Misha has no real interest in one-way streets and Jensen seems, for all intents and purposes, to be stuck in an endless roundabout of one. All he can hope now is that Jensen finds his way out sooner rather than later.

"At some point every fence-sitter needs to pick a place to land. You let me know if you ever choose yours, Jensen. Until then, we'll just be very dull boys."

"Okay..."

"So, I'll see you Wednesday, then."

"Misha, I..." Shame that whatever's swimming around in the murky depths of Jensen's brain never manages to find its way out. Needless to say, it's encouraging that he'd even try, especially now. Misha's not in the habit of giving points for effort, but perhaps just this once he can relent. Jensen presses on, though, hand carded roughly through his hair, before Misha can say anything, "Uh, sure. Yeah. I'll just go, um, get my stuff."

"By all means."

Misha watches Jensen go, all firm lines and business-like stride. Only then does he allow himself to feel it. It has happened seldom enough to be an alien sort of ache, that tight ball of unrealized potential constricting his stomach. He's still trying to work out how you lay a thing to rest that never really was when Jensen shuffles back into the kitchen with his backpack slung over his shoulder, wearing a hangdog look Misha can only attribute to Dean Winchester.

"Misha?"

"Yes?"

"Here's the thing..."

"You need a ride."

"If it's not a problem?"

"Not overly," Misha says, and means it. "Let's not shock the neighbors, though. I do still have to live here."

Jensen quirks a brow but leans back against the wall, carefully out of the way, as Misha makes the trek from kitchen to bedroom and what passes for presentable. Three minutes, one T-shirt, a pair of shoes, and a couple rough tugs through the riot perched atop his head masquerading as hair and he's ready. The necessary detour into the living room to collect his wallet and keys sends him right through Jensen's personal space again. It doesn't have to, of course, but then he is perhaps less benevolent than he typically assumes himself to be.

He's pleasantly surprised when Jensen lets him brush by with nary a twitch.

A month and a half ago, they'd simply been colleagues, friends. Without word otherwise, and he's not anticipating any, he'll assume that still stands. Misha genuinely likes Jensen, so it's not as if behaving like an adult will be some sort of hardship. To each their own. Besides, it's best to stay on good terms with one's co-workers, especially if one wants to continue working, _especially_ when one works on a show like _Supernatural_ where one's character can be summarily executed, regardless of how insanely talented the actor might be.

One enjoys the finer things and prefers gainful employment even if it requires choking down a small, admittedly bitter, measure of pride.

Words fail, though, and instead of doing them both the disservice of making stilted conversation about the weather or asking if Jensen's ready to go when he so clearly is, Misha simply heads for the garage, trusting Jensen to have the sense to follow.

"Well, that's new," Jensen says, as he pulls the passenger door closed behind him.

"Hmmm?"

"I can't believe I've never been in your car."

"It's not as if I run around offering rides to every fetching young thing I have occasion to meet."

"I guess. I just...thought. Never mind."

Misha puzzles on that as he backs out of the driveway and gets them pointed in the right direction. It makes him wonder just how gone Jensen has been when they've spent time together. In Jensen's defense, the only reason he hasn't been in Misha's car before is his own stubborn, single-mindedness. The first time Jared had been too liberal with Jensen's car keys, and Misha - not knowing what kind of drunk Jensen would turn out to be - opted to risk the upholstery of the aforementioned drunk rather than his own. He prides himself on being sensible, even when thoroughly diverted by sweetly-slurred nonsense. The second time, Jensen fully intended to drive, and if Misha hadn't, once again, been so distracted, he might have had the good sense to be terrified. Presumably, Jared had been responsible for the care and keeping of one drunk Jensen Ackles up to this point. Misha assumes as much anyway, as he'd had the forethought to take Jensen's keys from him the night of the party, long before things really slipped into third gear. Without Jared, or some responsible someone else to look after him, Jensen clearly has a penchant for getting into all kinds of trouble. That Jared could be considered 'the responsible one' frightens Misha more than all of Jensen's inebriated misbehavior does.

In all likelihood, it's nothing more than a simple memory lapse.

He hopes.

Jensen's apartment may only be three and a half miles away as the crow flies, but getting there involves interstates and two sets of cloverleaves. They have time to kill, time to talk, but he still hasn't found anything worth saying that won't embarrass and belittle them both - and by that Misha means him.

"Misha, I..." Jensen starts again, and when Misha looks over he's fiddling with the zips on his bag as if they're the most fascinating inventions ever to grace the face of the planet. To be fair, zippers are categorically handy, even if they mostly get in his way. If he were choosing, Misha just would have gone with pasteurization or indoor plumbing. He's about to say something to that effect when Jensen turns, and the pained expression on his face halts the words before they slip.

"Look, I don't know doesn't mean I don't want. It just means I don't know what it means. Hell, I don't even know what _I_ mean."

"Jensen."

"Let me finish, because this is pretty fucking unprecedented."

"Please do."

The trees whiz by in a blur of rain-battered green and gold and scarlet, and Misha finds he's tempted to take a wrong turn or two just to keep Jensen talking. How could he have known that motion would be the catalyst? He couldn't have. Misha sneaks another sidelong glance at Jensen, partially to make sure he's actually there and partially to confirm he hasn't, in fact, ventured any further off the reservation.

"Jared says I have trust issues."

"For all his _many_ other faults, Jared seems to understand people fairly well."

"I don't know if I'd go that far," Jensen says, with a lopsided smirk. "He understands me because we spend sixteen hours a day together."

"Touché."

"So here's me being straight. I don't really get you. I don't even have a place to start. You're unlike anyone I've ever almost known."

"I consider that a compliment."

"You would. I just...Okay, here's a for instance. Let's just say you got really fucking wasted and woke up in a park at six in the morning next to a guy you like and know but don't really _know_ because he's so violently opposed to being known. Then let's say you feel like you've maybe been manhandled a little and your lips are kind of swollen and you're sticky in places that don't usually get sticky unless interesting things have been happening. And then let's say instead of panicking like a normal person would when they find themselves in that kind of situation, you end up kicking yourself and wondering what you missed because you don't remember anything past playing a hundred hours of air hockey earlier that night."

"Jensen."

"Seriously, dude. Shut the fuck up," Jensen snaps, then follows it with a sigh, "Sorry, this is just...hard. I'm just trying to, y'know, explain."

Misha grits his teeth and holds his tongue, but he also quits driving in circles, turning the car directly for Jensen's place so he can what? This is what he wanted, right? Jensen, sober?

In the end, he nods and clutches the steering wheel a little tighter.

"Anyway, so let's say, hypothetically speaking of course, that days go by. Days that turn into weeks, and that guy acts like nothing happened, nothing's changed and you can't really remember one way or the other so you just go with it. Chalk it up to the scotch that you already know makes you do crazy shit. Maybe it made you make up crazy shit too."

When Misha makes the turn into his neighborhood, Jensen's words start to run together, like he's racing himself to some imaginary line in the proverbial sand, like he's physically incapable of speaking honestly unless he's in the space between places.

"But then you called and you didn't _ask_ me to have a drink. You said, 'Come get drunk with me,' and I thought..."

Predictably, Jensen runs out of steam as soon as the tires hit his driveway, and it leaves Misha adrift trying to process all the non-hypothetical hypotheticals mixed in with the rest. He manages to get the car into park, thankfully, and has only begun to wade through the brain dump Jensen unleashed when he feels lips pressed to his - slick, warm, wanting - and if there's just the slightest hesitation before they part, Misha's grateful for it because all there is for him to taste is toothpaste and Jensen.

When he eases back, Jensen smiles - a warm, honest, heartbreaking sort of thing that only he could pull off with any sincerity. So yes, Misha finds himself rendered nearly speechless. Especially since, once Jensen disentangles himself from the still-buckled safety belt and gets out of the car, he leans back in with a single word that makes all the absurdity that's passed between them worth it.

"Coming?"

"Sure."

 

[Continue](http://docepax.livejournal.com/5822.html)   



	5. Crazy Little Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Easy? When has anything ever been easy?

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fic:rps](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/fic:rps), [pair:jensen/misha](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/pair:jensen/misha), [spn](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/spn), [verse:scotch](http://docepax.livejournal.com/tag/verse:scotch)  
  
---|---  
  
_**ScotchVerse: Crazy Little Thing**_  
**Title: Crazy Little Thing**   
**Verse:** Scotchverse  
**Author:** [](http://kadiel-krieger.livejournal.com/profile)[**kadiel_krieger**](http://kadiel-krieger.livejournal.com/)   
**Pairing:** Jensen/Misha   
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** Real people are real. These are not.   
**Warnings:** None.   
**AN:**Jensen POV. Picks up **immediately** after _Stone Cold_. Many thanks to [](http://kaylbunny.livejournal.com/profile)[**kaylbunny**](http://kaylbunny.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

**Summary:** Easy? When has anything ever been easy?

>   
> ** Other works in the Scotch!Verse **   
> [Laphroaig](http://docepax.livejournal.com/3185.html)   
> [The Glenrothes](http://docepax.livejournal.com/3421.html)   
> [Johnny Walker](http://docepax.livejournal.com/3682.html)   
> [Stone Cold](http://docepax.livejournal.com/4049.html)   
> 

 

**From the end of _Stone Cold_**:  
_ When he eases back, Jensen smiles - a warm, honest, heartbreaking sort of thing that only he could pull off with any sincerity. So yes, Misha finds himself rendered nearly speechless. Especially since, once Jensen disentangles himself from the still-buckled safety belt and gets out of the car, he leans back in with a single word that makes all the absurdity that's passed between them worth it. _

"Coming?"

"Sure."

***

Jensen hangs onto the smile as long as he can, mostly because it makes him feel better about doing something so incredibly stupid.

Sure.

Of course, Misha's sure.

For all his other idiosyncrasies, all the incomprehensible shit he does on a semi-regular basis, in the moment Misha's always sure of himself. Jensen envies him for it - that he lives his life in a perpetual state of forward momentum instead of shuffling back a step for every two he takes forward.

Not that Jensen would know _anything_ about that.

He's less into the tangential wandering Misha seems so prone to in both conversation and action. Regardless of the situation, Jensen would much rather have firm ground underfoot and a steady wall at his back. Which means this thing between them - whatever it is - drives him a little fucking nuts. Mostly because Misha's a little nuts and seems to have the disturbing tendency to change his mind according to the winds or the stars or the color of his fucking underwear.

Hell, Jensen actually pinched himself this morning when he walked in on Misha playing Martha Stewart. It just didn't, still doesn't quite compute. When Misha asked him to stay, he assumed there would be sleep possibly followed by sex. Or sex followed by sleep. To be honest, he hadn't really thought much at all past the sense of victory, the fact that he'd managed to work his way under Misha's skin enough to be asked. The fact that it mattered in the first place is just going to be one of those things Jensen never thinks about, ever.

Once upon a time, Jensen thinks he'd had it figured out. Misha was _that_ guy. The guy who makes you think it was your idea to climb the grain elevator right after you jump off and break your wrist. The guy who takes like he's giving and gives like he's taking - gleefully manipulative but not in any malicious way. The guy who charms you out of your jacket because he's cold then asks you to unwrap him like a present.

That guy drives Jensen crazy - sometimes in the good way, sometimes not so much.

Anyway, Misha making omelets and squeezing orange juice had to be the seventh sign of the apocalypse. He's expecting the rain of toads to start any time. Really. Or is it the locusts? He's a bit fuzzy on details.

But maybe Jensen's just wrong, it's happened before once or twice. Maybe there are layers to Misha he hasn't even seen, much less touched, or tasted. Maybe he's like a jawbreaker, new colors and flavors uncovered after every lick.

It's not as if Misha makes it easy. Knowing, or trying to know him, is like standing on the beach with the tide rolling in, hoping it doesn't wash away the slip of sand you just so happen to be standing on. With strings come expectations, and as uncertain as he is about Misha's ability to meet the expectations he absolutely does not have, Jensen's even more worried about attempting to meet Misha's indecipherable, ever-evolving standards.

Sex is simple. The other stuff is - not.

Long story short, he hasn't got a fucking clue what this is to him, hadn't known it was supposed to _be_ anything but fun until Misha asked. That doesn't mean he's not trying to figure out the best way he knows how.

Sometimes, even he can take a leap of faith. Or stumble. Whatever.

If anyone's worth it...

Misha's shoes scuff against a patch of pavement behind him as Jensen climbs the two shallow stairs to his door and he can't quite tell if it's intentional. Not that anything Misha has ever done could be considered completely unintentional, but if it _was_ done purposefully Jensen's having a hard time finding the point.

For him, it means a fresh layer of sweat clinging to an already clammy pair of palms, nearly painful awareness, and the triumphant return of a nervous tic that hasn't surfaced since he finally grew into his nose his sophomore year of high school. What Jensen can't quite wrap his head around is why.

It's not his first time going to the big dance, not by a long shot. He's brought people back to his place before. Not that it's a revolving door, but he's far enough removed from monastic he wouldn't even recognize it if it strapped him up in a chastity belt. Having a good time is awesome. Sometimes, okay - frequently, his good times involve drinking copious amounts of scotch. And really, there's no need to even finish that thought because he knows better than anyone where it leads - a shitstorm of questions without answers.

Still, it's been awhile since he opened this particular door to someone. The last person was Jay, and even though Jared had spent half the time making obnoxious kissy faces in his general direction, it was - and still is - entirely platonic. He thinks the lip-pucker-palooza that night had been intended for the girl on the other end of Jensen's haphazard string of text messages. Not that he knows for sure, he'd been way more absorbed in the immediate, the ball game, the effortless ebb and flow of banter tempered with silence, finally breathing easy with someone that's not family. Jensen feels like the world's biggest ass that he can't remember the girl's name beyond the fact it started with N, and figures that might just be why she never called again. Shame. He _does_ remember she was a knockout with legs that went on for-fucking-ever and did this thing with her tongue that had to be illegal in thirty of the lower forty-eight states.

Anyway.

Jensen's not delusional enough to believe it has anything to do with the actual door. That would be a level of crazy he has no interest in entertaining ever. Yeah, there's maybe a loose correlation. He can count on two hands the number of people who've crossed his threshold sober, and needs five fewer fingers for the ones that were there for something beyond sex.

Maybe he's hung-over.

Maybe this _is_ just about the sex.

In spite of the scotch-induced gaps in Jensen's memory, it's not as if either of them can deny that they've, y'know, been there and done that seemingly everywhere else in the province, so the likelihood that's the culprit is slim. Maybe it's just Misha - the weight of his gaze combined with his uncharacteristic silence is pretty damn unnerving.

Of course, Misha only makes it worse. As soon as the thought fades down to a dull sort of roar, Misha presses in behind him, warm and fluid and quietly proprietary. All the hair on the back of Jensen's neck stands at attention, and he's so distracted by the slow draw of Misha's breath against his nape, he doesn't have it in him to move away when Misha threads an arm around him and spreads a hand over the way-too-fucking-telling skip and stutter going apeshit in his chest.

Misha, in an apparent attempt to drive Jensen even more insane, licks his lips before they find that ridiculously sensitive hollow lurking behind Jensen's ear, his voice pitched low with some emotion Jensen can't readily identify.

He says, "I can go," even though they both know he doesn't mean it and Jensen swallows hard because he gets that he's being a big fucking baby about all this and the fact that Misha - pushy, impossible Misha - is willing to take a step back, willing to give Jensen space to breathe even though he doesn't have any more answers than he started with this morning...it's, yeah.

Man up Ackles, he thinks, even though it's really not an appropriate time for Coach Tully to put in a guest appearance - not with Misha's fingers tapping an absent rhythm against his sternum, Misha's chin a gentle weight on his shoulder. There's nothing impatient in it, or maybe there is, but Jensen's too wrapped up in his own head to notice.

The soft, "No," that finds its way past Jensen's lips is more tentative than he'd like, but it's not enough to sway his conviction.

He can do this.

His body still seems to think otherwise, because when Jensen digs for his keys, his fingers don't work quite the way they should and the mangled lump he fumbles out of his pocket resembles nothing more than one of those magnetic puzzles Eric has lined up across the front of his desk back in LA. The symmetry, while not completely lost on him, would be more hilarious if he could keep his hands from shaking.

He feels the stretch of Misha's smile against his neck, the bony bump of elbow against ribs when he reaches, and if Jensen were put together any better right now he'd be fucking pissed off about being treated like a child. As it stands, he's just grateful. Thirty seconds later, Misha finds the right key from the ring then leans in to swing the door open, and Jensen doesn't have to think about it anymore.

In his opinion, anyway.

Misha seems to have other ideas, because the next thing Jensen hears is a soft laugh huffed right in his fucking ear.

"Is there a pack mule hiding in the bushes?"

Jensen grins in spite of himself, partly because who else would stand around waiting to be the butt of one of Misha's weird ass jokes, but mostly because Misha's nonsensical proclamations may be Jensen's second-favorite thing about him.

"Um, no. I think the homeowner's association would frown on that."

"How's that fair?" Misha asks, and Jensen feels the tension in his spine dial down from an eleven to seven.

"Because I should be able to tend livestock in the courtyard?"

"Because you're obviously disabled. No, I'm sorry - physically challenged."

"How so?"

"Clearly," Misha says with mock sincerity, and plants what's probably intended to be a chaste kiss in the spot that apparently serves as the nexus for all Jensen's nerve endings, "You have trouble finding your way inside. A pack mule might help. Perhaps even with getting the groceries in. I certainly don't intend to throw you over my shoulder."

Jensen rolls his eyes and takes the step, or steps. Hell, it might be two or it might be four, he's too busy thinking about how smoothly Misha coaxed him down to count. With Misha still wound around him like an octopus, it's more awkward shuffling than actual steps anyway, but since they end up inside with the door closed and locked behind them he figures it's good enough.

Of course, that's also when he starts to _really_ freak out.

It makes Jensen squirm, try to escape. He's flipping through and discarding the fifteenth of an infinite number of plausible excuses when Misha wraps him up tighter, murmurs nonsense against his skin.

Fucking fuck.

"Misha..." he says then stops because he doesn't know how to go on, what to go on with.

Misha just hums and draws lopsided figure eights around his nipple in lieu of actually responding. Awesome. So much for helping.

Thing of it is, Jensen can't pin himself down enough to explain. It's not the guy thing, or even the sober thing, really. Okay, that's a lie, but it's more the sober thing than the guy thing. He's been with guys before. He's even been with guys without the fucking scotch. Just not anyone he, y'know, actually wants to keep.

Fuck.

Maybe he can't do this. Maybe he should have just let Misha drop him off and go. Maybe it's too much, too soon.

But it's not, not really, not when he shoves all the knee-jerk panic aside.

Two weeks after Misha joined the cast, Jensen's cock had already been seriously considering breaking his tried and true rule about shitting where you sleep. Not consciously, of course, but his cock has never really cared about conscious. Which just sounds wrong, even inside his head.

Jensen himself, the one that actually has thoughts in his upstairs brain, had just ignored it. His cock is, by and large, his least intelligent organ and had done the same thing the first time he stumbled into a half dressed Tom Welling, not to mention the time Jeff hugged him a little too tight in the middle of a scene, or when Adrienne cocked her hip and that stupid Smurfs shirt stretched the wrong way. While he probably has far fewer notches on his proverbial bedpost than Dean Winchester, his dick has always been about equal opportunity corruption. If he hadn't learned to ignore it in high school, he'd be dead of dehydration or disease-ridden already.

At some point though, the interest migrated.

Jensen has never really put a name to it, never allowed it to find more than fleeting purchase between his ears, so it's hard to pinpoint exactly when it started. Sometime late last year, he thinks, which had sucked hardcore considering that was about the same time he started having more scenes with Misha than he did Jared.

Just, fuck.

Now he _is_ thinking about it and it's a fucking flower unfolding in his brain, like it was just sitting there happily dormant until he stumbled by with a watering can ready to pay attention.

Jensen hates fucking flowers.

Except he doesn't, not really, but every petal that peels back terrifies him a little more until he's staring at the heart of this epically bad idea without anything in the way of preparation.

So yeah, it turns out he actually does remember when it started, every single fucked up second. Hindsight's the only thing that makes it fucked up, because the moment itself is so absurdly innocuous it makes him want to laugh and kick himself in the ass.

It was a Saturday. They'd just wrapped for the week, and thank fucking God because Jensen had been wrecked since Thursday, exhausted since the day before that and had just spent three hours strapped to a hospital bed crying manly tears of manliness. It was the kind of emotional meat grinder that always made him wonder why the hell he chose acting. The fact they weren't on location only compounded his misery, because here in the studio his personal space consisted of a couple of chairs and a bathroom flanked on one side by wardrobe and the other by make-up. With all the cheerful chattering, he was having a hard time lacing up all the old wounds he'd had to open to get the job done.

The staccato series of knocks on his door had been the last fucking straw. He'd snapped, flung the door open with some really colorful language and a metric ton of diva bullshit heavy on his tongue. Misha had stood there silently and let him unload. Not only that, but he'd pushed Jensen back into the slipshod dressing room when people started poking their heads around corners to stare. He'd shoved Jensen into one of the ratty armchairs that looked more like a set piece than actual furniture, rooted through Jensen's bag until he found his iPod, and popped the buds in Jensen's ears like he did it every fucking day. Then he'd smirked a smirk that said, "Chill out you crazy fucker, I like this job and I'm not going to lose it because you bust a gasket and die," before he pressed play and disappeared in a swift sway of trench coat.

Yeah, he remembers. In the moment, there'd only been relief. He'd zoned out to _his_ music, wearing _his_ clothes, and let Dean Winchester slough off like dead skin. After was another story altogether, and even once he'd spent that night sucking and fucking his way through three different busty blondes, the questions were still waiting.

How had Misha known?

Jay would have asked had he been there, of course. He'd have turned on his puppy eyes, scrunched his face into Sam-shapes, and asked Jensen what he needed. Misha didn't have to.

It had all been a little too method for his comfort, and the only reason it hadn't screwed with the dynamic was because he's a professional and an ace at compartmentalizing his life.

He ignored it and it went away, mostly - simple as that. Until now.

When Jensen comes back to himself, Misha's not draped all over him anymore, and he can't decide whether the tightness in his chest is gratitude or something else. Misha hasn't wandered far, though what he hopes to accomplish by going through the silverware drawer, Jensen has no fucking idea.

Misha's weird.

"Are you in the habit of succumbing to random bouts of catatonia?" Misha asks, still seemingly fascinated by Jensen's flatware, testing the balance of each of his steak knives with a considering quirk etched on his brow.

"I don't think so?"

There's a hollow kind of clank when Misha drops the knife back in the drawer and closes it.

"I meant what I said. I'm not well-suited to mooning."

"Okay...and how am I supposed to fix that?" Jensen asks, then takes the initiative to close the gulf between them, because somehow he feels like it will help, say something that needs saying that he _can't_ say.

Misha laughs, and it's got an edge to it - a derisive little wheeze that makes Jensen want to shake him, because that's not who he is. In the end, he wraps his hand tentatively across the back of Misha's neck, steps in close until he can knock their foreheads together, until Misha relaxes and goes blurry. His heart's pounding so hard he can barely hear because he doesn't want to fuck this up, doesn't want to care whether he fucks this up even though he does. It feels familiar, though Jensen can't figure out why.

It wouldn't take much, really, to lean in that extra two inches, kiss away whatever's crawled up Misha's ass, and Jensen's gearing himself up to do exactly that before Misha disentangles himself and pulls back.

"I can't do this, Jensen."

To say it's a slap in the face would be a gross understatement, and Jensen can feel it in his bones, feel the heat thrumming across the back of his neck all the way to the tips of his ears, because _this_ is the very thing he tries so hard to guard himself against.

"What the fuck, dude?" Jensen spits back, and the urge to shake Misha returns with a vengeance, shake or punch or do other kinds of ill-advised violence because really, what the _fuck_. No matter what he might or might not want, Jensen's about five words away from chucking Misha out on his ass just for being a dick. Still, running has got him all kinds of nowhere in the past so instead of doing anything overly rash, he just backs slowly away until his calves hit the couch and he can sit down to stew.

"What the fuck, indeed," Misha says and settles in beside Jensen, legs curled under him, his arm draped across the back of the couch like he owns it, like it belongs there. Even in the midst of his frustration, Jensen can't deny wanting it there even though he really fucking wants to. But Misha's wearing a small, sad smile that Jensen will probably learn to hate and looking over his shoulder instead of looking at him. "It would be easier if I didn't give a shit. We could just go on randomly fucking one another's brains out. I've got too much respect for myself to do that to either of us. Life's too short to bank on a day that may never come."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means, Jensen, that this means something to me, whether I want it to or not," he says, inching forward ever so slightly like he's going to reach out and touch, and Jensen tenses before Misha eases back and sighs again. "But unless it means something to you, I just - can't, won't. As entertaining as it's been, I'm tired of trying to find new and improved ways to get you drunk, and it's not good for either of us. "

"Hold the fucking phone."

Misha just stares back at him, actually at him, his head tilted in a bastardized parody of Castiel. It's unnerving.

"How long?"

"I'm not sure what you're asking," Misha says, but something in his tone makes Jensen want to call bullshit. So he does.

"How**long**?"

"Since I...ate? I had that omelet about an - "

"Fuck you, Misha," Jensen growls, teeth aching from the pressure he's putting them under. If he gets through this without a cracked crown, it'll be a miracle, but he has to know. "How long have you been thinking about this? Us? Whatever."

Even if this is all there ever is, it's a question worth asking.

Misha's eyes go slightly unfocused and he does that thing again, where he looks at anything but Jensen. It means, of course, that either Misha's actually nervous or he's getting ready to lie.

"A while," is what he finally says, and Jensen believes him.

"So cut me some fucking slack. Two hours ago I thought I was nothing more than a booty call that probably overstayed my welcome. I'm not like you. I don't turn on a dime."

"I'd never ask you to."

"Then what the fuck _do_ you want?"

"Does it matter?"

"You really think I'd ask if it didn't?"

"You."

"I thought we'd kind of covered that already, with the sex."

"It's like I'm speaking to an emotional invalid."

"Not helping."

Misha leans in, deliberately slow and intensely fucking focused. Jensen lets him, holds his gaze as long as he can, until his eyes start to cross, and when Misha's fingertips find his face again it feels a little less claustrophobic than it did just a few short hours ago. Misha's lips are soft and wet, but not insistent when they find his, and it's not leading up to something or down from something.

It just is.

The impulse is still there, the cartoon devil crouched on his shoulder that tells Jensen to take it to that place, the familiar place of liquor and flesh and come and teeth. It would be so simple to slip his hands up under Misha's shirt and realign them into something more normal.

But he doesn't.

Misha, of course, looks caught between pride and confusion when he pulls back, and the slow blink Misha treats Jensen to is satisfaction enough for the moment - enough for Jensen, though apparently not enough for Misha because his hands drop into his lap and he shifts away by inches.

"I want you, you insufferable jackass. Pretty packaging only goes so far, and as singular a specimen as you are, it's not just your ass or your mouth I'm after. I'm too far gone for careful," Misha says in a rush, a little breathless, like the honesty of it's actually crushing him. Jensen has exactly three seconds to think maybe this isn't easy for either of them before Misha's gone, headed for the door and his car and hours of uncomfortable silence on set three days from now.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This is totally why he never gets involved, never mind with a co-worker.

"Misha, wait."

Even with the minimal height difference, Jensen catches up easily. Something to be said, he guesses, for being forced to keep in step with a damned Sasquatch of Jared's size all the time. The door slams shut when he palms it, rattling a couple of the pre-furnished knick-knacks littering the sofa table under the window, and Jensen misses ramming Misha's nose against the steel by a quarter of an inch. His reflexes are awesome.

Misha doesn't turn or push him away or move at all except to let his head fall forward in silence. It's better than nothing, and Jensen flattens his free hand against the door too, pins Misha in the way he once had in that alley what seems like a lifetime ago. When breathes against the nape of Misha's neck, ruffling the small hairs with a sigh, Misha sighs with him and shifts, presses back into Jensen just enough that it feels like he wants to issue a standing invitation.

Something clicks, and Jensen's not sure where to place the blame or lay the gratitude, but it's maybe kind of awesome to finally be of one mind. That he can watch the flush creep up the back of Misha's neck and not immediately want to put it somewhere else, that he doesn't have to reach immediately for his scotch or Misha's cock.

It also means he has no fucking clue what _to_ do.

Misha takes the decision out of his hands when he does finally turn, stubble scraped against Jensen's cheek, their noses bumping gracelessly together because they're standing just a little too close to make it easy. Then there's a palm pressed against his chest again, a gentle push that forces him back a couple steps. When Misha's face springs into focus, there's something like suspicion caught up in his eyes, and Jensen feels like shit for being the reason it's there.

So he says, "Stay," and finds Misha's hand, threads their fingers together. It's awkward, because he doesn't really know how to do this, much less the why, but when he tacks the, "please," on after, Misha smiles and grips tighter and Jensen figures maybe he's doing a decent job of it.

The last thing Jensen expects is when Misha slips past him silently, tugs on his hand until he's drawn into a stutter-step in Misha's wake. Or it was the last thing he expected, until he finds himself watching Misha push open every door that lines his pitiful excuse of a hallway with an almost childlike curiosity. He's not sure if Misha's on a mission of some kind or if it's just exploratory poking, but for Jensen it's vaguely uncomfortable, like someone going through his laundry basket or garbage or whatever. Not that Jensen's messy, he's not, it's just _his_ space. He's doing the best he can to stamp out the defensive impulses, because he's the one that asked Misha to stay.

Right?

Fuck.

Apparently, there's a method to Misha's madness because when he swings the last door open, the door to the master, he pulls them both inside without missing a step.

Okay. That's, okay. Really fucking confusing, but okay.

Jensen manages to get Misha's name out before the soft pads of Misha's fingers press down against his lips, urging him to silence. Which, yeah, will never be anything other than fucking hot, but he feels like he missed something along the way, some non-verbal cue that blew right on by while he was mired in indecision. He could have sworn the entire conversation they'd had was about this thing not just being sex.

Not that anyone will ever hear him complain, because when Misha's hands finally stir to motion, they're gentle, careful in a way he's maybe never been before - not that Jensen's able to remember everything clearly through the scotch haze. It definitely feels different, looks different as he watches the deliberate path wind down across his stomach, Misha's thumbs hooked under the hem of his shirt, the slow skyward push that has Jensen raising his arms without being asked, nipples pebbled and aching as the heels of Misha's hands graze against them. And it _is_ different, because there's no way Jensen would have had the patience for this drunk, he knows that much for a fact - so slow it's almost painful and he has to bite back the questions burning in his lungs for fear that Misha will stop.

He doesn't. His lips and tongue follow his hands in that same haphazard pattern, and when Misha does finally speak, it's with his cheek pressed against Jensen's navel, his fingers poised to pop the button on Jensen's jeans, and Jensen has to move when the words come because he just can't. Can't. So he drags Misha up, kisses him hard, tries to lick them out of his mouth. It doesn't work. With Misha flushed up against him they echo back even louder - an inescapable loop of, "_So fucking beautiful_," rounding on itself over and over and even Jensen knows it has nothing to do with his body.

This would be the complicated other stuff he tries like hell to avoid.

Except now, now he's drawing it in, breathing it in furiously, like until now he's been little more than an emaciated shell of himself, and that letting Misha permeate all those tightly kept corners he's always held apart changes something, because somehow he knows - knows that Misha _will_ be careful despite his protestations. It makes Jensen brave, lets him ease back and look, really see the dark tangle of Misha's bedhead, the flush rising on his cheeks, something in his eyes that Jensen absolutely does not have the fortitude to name. It lets him peel Misha's T-shirt up over his head at a deliberate pace instead of a frenzied one. Lets him find the curve of Misha's shoulder where it bends into neck and murmur things against that soft patch of skin he could regret tomorrow - things like, "Want this," and "Want you," and "Fuck Misha, what the fuck are you doing to me?" When Misha's hands sweep down his back in cautious, soothing strokes, Jensen feels like he might just crumble in the face of so much tenderness. It aches in his stomach, behind his teeth, in his chest, his dick, because Misha's taking him apart expertly - like it was something he was born to do.

A harsh breath rattles up his throat, and it's almost too much.

"Misha, I..." Jensen says, and lets his hands wander aimlessly across the hard planes of Misha's back, feeling the muscles tense and release when Misha moves, not knowing what else to do because he's kind of dizzy.

"Shhh," Misha whispers against his ear, and Jensen steadfastly fucking refuses to acknowledge the shudder that crawls out under his skin, because it's ridiculous. What's even more ridiculous is the second shudder that comes, the one he can't deny when Misha's grips his wrists, draws his hands away from skin and around before pressing a kiss to each of his palms.

It's enough to make him lose track of things for awhile, and when Jensen snaps back to awareness, somehow he's naked and Misha's naked and they're more or less horizontal on something soft and Misha's face is right there lit up with want and humor and all the things that make Jensen a little more okay with all that complicated stuff. Then he feels Misha's knees press against his hips, the slow drag of Misha's cock against his, and he _wants_.

His hands fly on autopilot, drawn to the sharp outline of Misha's hipbones, and he grapples, trying to drive them faster. Misha stills, catches his wrists in that almost unbearably firm grip again, and leans up to push Jensen's hands against the bed over his head.

"Let me take care of you, Jensen."

Fuck.

It makes his head snap sideways, eyes slammed shut, teeth caught against his lower lip and copper on his tongue - anything to take the edge off, to distract from the happy little twitch his dick does at the idea of just laying back and taking it, letting Misha have his way. He shouldn't want to, shouldn't even want to think about it, but with his defenses completely fucking compromised it's hard to convince anyone otherwise, least of all himself.

Misha must take his silence for consent, because soon that wicked tongue is working its way down the side of his neck, dipping into his collarbone, tracing the line of his ribs and with his eyes closed it's both better and worse. Better because he can give himself over more easily to the plain physicality of it - lips and hands and tongue and skin. Worse because everything feels amplified and he can't escape the fact that the hitch in his breath, the matching hitch in Misha's has jack shit to do with physical.

The bed dips gently, and he doesn't think anything of it until his skin goes to gooseflesh, the sloppy chill of drying saliva creeping slowly into his spine. When he pries his eyes open Misha's not in the space above him or beside him or anywhere in the fucking room and his chest goes tight for a full fucking minute before he remembers, oh yeah, he can still speak.

"Misha?"

There's a soft thump from the master bath followed by a curse and when Misha peers around the corner at him, Jensen absolutely does not think he's adorable. Not. It takes him a few seconds to get the brain spun back up to speed enough to figure out what Misha's looking for, but when he does he points.

"Bottom drawer, back right corner."

Misha glides back towards him, completely unabashed by his nakedness, hips swinging hypnotically with a kind of feral roll and bunch Jensen can only equate with jungle cats. The look that Misha flashes him before he bends to unearth Jensen's stash chases each and every fucking goose bump he's ever thought of having straight to Timbuktu.

"You realize, I'm sure, that you're not in high school anymore?" Misha quirks a smile at him then tosses two condoms and a tube of lube on the bed.

Which, granted, is a valid point - he'd just never gotten out of the habit.

Still.

The bed dips again and Misha's above him, lowering lips to meet his, and any remotely smartass response he could have come back with flies the fucking coop. It takes an act of will not to wrap Misha up and flip them over, wipe that crooked smile off his face and replace it with something less smug. That's not what this is about, though. So Jensen waits, opens to Misha's tongue when it pushes at against his mouth seeking entry, and lets Misha take what he wants at the tempo he wants without interfering.

He lets go, lets his eyelids droop, his muscles relax, and learns to simply be.

Misha brings him back with a kiss to his temple, his lips a slick, warm slide on skin that makes Jensen open his eyes for the briefest of seconds before he lets them slip shut again.

Then Misha's in his ear, whispering low and dirty, "No, Jensen. Open your eyes. I want you to watch. Watch."

And if Misha's saying that, like that, there's definitely something to see. His eyelids snap back so fast it's a wonder he doesn't give himself a concussion and when he looks at Misha, down the long, fucking gorgeous line of his body he can't exactly see. The way Misha's rocking, the hard curve of his cock wet against his belly, the telling absence of his hand on Jensen's skin, there's no other explanation.

"Fuck, Misha."

And fuck the rules, Jensen thinks, reaches out blindly. He chalks the palm against his sternum up to Misha's damn yogi ninjitsu or whatever.

"I thought I told you," Misha breathes, back bowed and neck arched, flush creeping up his chest as he hisses his lungs empty, slides another finger home, "to relax."

"But I..."

"Jensen," Misha sighs and goes completely, achingly still, says, "Please," with such a messed up mix of emotions that even though Jensen will never understand, he respects and slides himself - bare ass and all - into the corner of the bed where mattress and headboard both meet wall. Less temptation there, away, to touch Misha though not himself because Misha's still Misha and too flexible, too wanton, too pretty for this crazy fucked-up world and with the new angle Jensen can actually see.

Fuck.

The glare Misha gives him when he grabs for his cock is enough to make Jensen behave, his hands curled to fists against his thighs, breath coming fast and hard because it's the only outlet left to him as he watches Misha's eyes slip shut, the muscles undulate under Misha's skin, his spine curling and unfurling just beyond his reach. It's fucking torture.

"Misha," Jensen breathes, too desperate to care just how desperate he sounds and Misha's eyes slit open just enough for him to see and something changes, because the serenity's gone, the deliberate intensity breaks under Misha's eager hands. Jensen feels more than sees the condom go on, firm fingers stroking down as his head cracks back against the wall. Then Misha's there, hovering above him with that impossible sinuous grace, thighs tensed and face so fucking open Jensen doesn't know what to do with any of it - the want, the need, the sheer magnitude of what Misha is laid out before him without walls. It's too much, and Jensen pulls a breath to say so, say something, wants to bury his face against Misha's chest just so he doesn't have to see, but then Misha - Misha guides him in, and sinks down in one long, slow burn that feels like more of a fucking heaven than Jensen's ever known and words fail.

Jensen can't put a name to the sound that crawls up Misha's throat either. It's somewhere between a moan and a sigh, and when he settles in hips to hips Jensen can't breathe for the heat and the tightness and the angle, all of Misha's warmth stretched out right there where he can but can't touch.

"Please, I need," he hears himself say, like he's not of this world anymore, not of his own body, and that makes the most sense of anything that's happened to him today.

Misha rocks just enough for him to feel it and draws his thumbs against the angle of Jensen's jaw.

"What, Jensen? Tell me what you need," Misha says, managing somehow to sound completely in control and completely wrecked at the same time in that way that only Misha ever could.

"I need to touch," Jensen says, hands reaching before he's even finished and Misha smiles wide, bends back as Jensen's fingers trace the lines of his ribs, the hollows of his hipbones. The rhythm starts slow, aching, and Jensen's almost more mesmerized by the tiny flutters of Misha's muscle dancing under his fingertips than the sweet, slow slide - almost, because to say otherwise would be a lie. It's perfect, the walls bracing him up, cold drywall against his shoulders, Misha like a furnace around him moving like a fucking dancer, and Jensen can't help but look up, can't help but try to catch him watching and he does. Misha stares right back, stripped down to this and only this, not less without the defenses wrapped up around him, just different - freer, wilder.

It's goddamn gorgeous.

Jensen leans in, lays a trail of kisses against Misha's skin, then wraps his hand tight around Misha's cock, watches his control slip just that much more and he rocks harder, tension breaking Jensen down until he's breathless and panting with the need for release. It makes him grip tighter, pull faster, twist his hand that extra half turn, and then he's dragging Misha down because he wants to share what little breath he has, kiss him senseless until he shatters. It's more teeth than lips when Jensen gets Misha close enough, the angle changes and makes him suck in air, Misha moaning right into his mouth, gasping sweet choked off _fuck unh fuck_ sounds as he keeps the pace and Jensen keeps it with him. Jensen has a half a second when Misha goes rigid against him where he has time to think that if it gets any better, his fucking brain is going to explode. Then it does get better because Misha comes hard, his spine caught in an S curve of Jensen's making, his body vibrating and Jensen really can't breathe because Misha's locked down around him, hot and wet, and then he's gone too - whiteout - the world falling away.

Maybe it should take longer to claw his way back, but it's more than long enough already in Jensen's opinion. First of all, he's clean, no wayward spray of come, no used condom, so either Misha is the most awesome guy in the awesomely wide universe or it didn't happen at all and Jensen just has a fan-fucking-tastic imagination. His back seems to think it happened, so does his dick, and as unreliable as it's been in the past he thinks he's going to just have to trust it this once. Misha's still there lying not six inches away and still naked, so that points to his 'not a dream' theory being a sensible one.

Weird thing is, Misha's still quiet.

"Hey," Jensen says, mostly because he doesn't know what else to say, because this is new ground for him with Misha - good ground, but still new.

When Misha looks up at him, his eyes are bright and so blue it makes Jensen's chest ache, it also makes him want to do stupid shit, say stupid shit that he doesn't say. So he's just not going to.

Instead he says, "I thought this wasn't about sex," and reaches out to touch again, because he can.

"Well, it's not _just_ about sex, but a man has needs," Misha replies, huffs a laugh, and the lightness in his tone is enough to convince Jensen that everything might just be okay.

"A man does, does he?"

"You have no idea."

Misha curls into him again, all hands and muscle, and Jensen welcomes it, wants it, even if it's still a little terrifying to let someone in so far so fast.

The benefits far outweigh the risks.  



End file.
